The Redemption of Draco Malfoy
by Scotch
Summary: Draco becomes an apprentice Auror in hopes of atoning for some of his past mistakes. The job is a lot more than he bargained for, never mind being assigned to work with Harry bloody Potter. Well, if he could survive Voldemort, he can survive an internship under a git with a hero complex.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, nor am I making any sort of profit from writing this.

 **Notes:** Be gentle, this is my first attempt at Drarry, or a decent Harry Potter fic in general. ...Even though I've shipped these two since I was like 12. God I'm getting old. This is set post Deathly Hollows, and canon up until the ending of the war, but ignores everything that happened afterward. They're about 25 years old in this. IDK how long this is going to be; I'm just kind of pulling it out of my arse as I go along. So yeah, I would really appreciate any feedback you guys are willing to give me. I've moved this story from my other account that I'm going to be deleting (IDK how I wound up with two), so if you've seen it there before, that would be why.

Also, please pardon my mixture of American and British spellings of things; they're both right as far as I'm concerned. I'm British but I've lived in the US for a long time so hell if I know which way's up anymore. XD

 **Warnings:** Homophobia (internalized and not), swearing, canon-typical violence, angst and PTSD/Depression symptoms. Lots of fluff too, later in the story. It's not all angst, but it's definitely there. The individual chapters containing this type of stuff will have a warning attached. Rated M mostly for the swearing and adult themes, there's no actual graphic sexual content.

* * *

 **Chapter One: The Nightmare Begins**

* * *

"You're joking." He'd heard it wrong; that was it. There was no way they'd assign him to Potter. No, surely not. What if that evil Malfoy boy corrupted the great, glorious savior of the wizarding world? Draco stared up at Kingsley in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Kingsley stared right back without so much as flinching.

"I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, I am not joking. Starting immediately, you will work as Potter's assistant. In six months time, depending on his evaluation of your performance, you will be officially recognized an Auror. If Potter does not give you a passing grade, you will have to retake the written and practical portions of the Auror training course before you can attempt another internship," Kingsley told him firmly. Draco was sure he'd repeated at least some if it; he nearly fainted when Kingsley mentioned an internship with Potter. "I think this will be a good learning experience – for _both_ of you," He added, with a hint of a smirk.

Draco barely managed not to groan aloud and tell Kingsley where he could shove his 'learning experience'. "With all due respect, Minister, this is going to be a bloody disaster," Draco whinged, knowing it was futile. Kingsley wouldn't change the assignment after he'd made up his mind. He shouldn't even be complaining, really. Sure, it was going to be hell working with Potter, but it was thanks to that miserable git that he'd been accepted into the Auror training program in the first place. The ministry had refused his application due to his past involvement with the Death Eaters, but Potter had asked them to reconsider. He loathed to think about it, but he was definitely in debt to Potter.

"Being an Auror means you will find yourself in more than a few life or death situations, and that means trusting your fellow Aurors to have your back when you find yourself in a mess. If you can't set aside your differences with Potter enough to maintain a civil professional relationship, you won't make it as an Auror," Kingsley explained irritably. "Think of this assignment as your final lesson. Pass or fail; the choice is yours. Unless you have any further questions or pointless complaints, Potter is waiting for you in his office."

Draco stared hard at the ornate carpet beneath his feet. "Fine," He said and swept out of Kingsley's office without waiting for a reply.

He nearly had a nervous breakdown as he slipped into the closest elevator that was jam-packed with ministry workers, and little paper memos flitting around the ceiling. How was he going to do this? Potter hated him. Maybe he thought Draco had some good in him, but he still hated him. Unconsciously he traced his finger along the serpentine scar that was hidden under his shirt. Maybe he didn't want to do the things he did back then, but he still did them because he was too much of a coward to stand up to his father. He deserved to be hated. That was why he chose to become an Auror – to vindicate himself. He couldn't afford to fail. Failure wasn't in his nature; A Malfoy never backed down from a challenge. He stepped off the elevator on the floor where the Aurors' offices were and took a deep breath. He knocked three times on the door with Potter's name next to it. There was no turning back.

"Come in!" Potter called. "Mind the kneazle, she bites people she doesn't like."

Draco cringed and nearly tripped over the obnoxious white furball in question. She was asleep on the floor, sprawled out like she owned the place, right in front of the door. "What's with the kneazle, Potter?" Draco asked with a sneer.

"You know how the Auror department has that stupid white elephant party during the holidays every year...?" Potter said awkwardly.

"The one I have managed to avoid for the entire three years that I've worked here?" Draco supplied, sidestepping the kneazle that made a half-arsed attempt to claw his ankle as he walked by. She was wearing the most ridiculous pink rhinestone encrusted collar Draco had ever seen. He almost wanted to vomit.

"Yeah, that's the one. I know you'd never take _my_ advice, Malfoy, but don't go. Ever. Her name is Princess Amelia Von Fluffybits. Just call her Princess. Or ignore her; I mostly do," Harry quipped, and looked up from the day's copy of the _Daily Prophet_. The front page, of course, had a photo of him with the headline: 'Harry Potter: Gay Crisis?'. Draco tried, and failed, not to smirk. He wasn't sure if it was good or bad that the _Prophet_ was still tearing Potter's public image to shreds at every given opportunity. It had been ages since he'd read the _Prophet_ ; maybe it was time to pick up a copy. For entirely wholesome, non-blackmailing uses, of course.

"Gay crisis? Seriously? Don't take this a complement, but that's fucking pathetic even for them," Draco drawled and seated himself on the small sofa near Potter's desk. The place was a mess. There were piles of paperwork on every flat surface, and kneazle hair on everything else. Draco tried not to think of how many little white hairs would be stuck to his black coat when he got up. He cursed himself inwardly and wondered if he was going to be responsible for the appalling amount of ignored paperwork. Probably. That was how his luck seemed to run these days.

"So, I have an intern," Potter commented, ignoring Draco and furiously balling the newspaper up in his hands much more violently than necessary. Draco barely managed not to make another jab at Potter as he set the _Prophet_ on fire with a prod of his wand.

"You do," Draco said glumly.

"I'm going to skip the whole safety and teamwork speech Kingsley expects me to read you. It's nauseating and pointless since we're probably going to kill each other anyway," Harry complained disgustedly, and dropped a thick parchment scroll into the overflowing waste paper basket beside his desk. "What we _are_ going to do, is something practical. I've got a few reports of 'strange accidents' coming from muggle London. It's probably nothing, but we'll have a look."

"Wonderful. Fraternizing with muggles. How far I have fallen," Draco whinged, and considered aiming a kick at Princess who was inching ever closer to him with murder in her beady yellow eyes. Harry ignored his comment, though it was obviously costing him some serious effort to do so. "So, what are these 'accidents', exactly?"

Harry handed Draco a suspiciously thin case file. "I'd tell you, but you might as well read it for yourself so you don't miss anything important."

Draco snatched the folder from Harry's hand. "...A total of three suspicious deaths in the same borough in the past week, former death eaters suspected," He glared at Harry over the top of the file. "And how often is it _actually_ former death eaters?"

"Malfoy, be realistic. You know the answer to that as well as I do, but the ministry is still run by a bunch of bitter old farts. Shut up and read it – all of it. I'm going to get us a cuppa, and then we'll get started," Harry snapped and stalked out of the room without waiting for a reply. He was being surprisingly civil, all things considered, but Draco could see the tension in every line of his body as he nearly slammed the door behind him on his way out.

Almost never, you mean, Draco thought to himself. What a lot of people didn't realize, was that not every death eater _wanted_ to be an evil bastard. A lot of them did it because they thought it would keep their families safe. ...That if they were on the Dark Lord's good side when the shit hit the fan, they might not have to bury their children. They were good people in over their heads. The ones that actually supported wanton murder had mostly been rounded up by the ministry within weeks of when Voldemort had fallen. Draco ran his fingers through his white-blonde hair unconsciously in irritation. Potter was certainly a lot harder to piss off than he had been when they were younger. He ducked out of the office and into the messy little lounge on the Aurors' floor. There was still a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ laying on the coffee table. With an amused smirk, he scanned over the article about Potter's supposed 'gay crisis'. It was drivel, of course - nothing but a load of garbage about how Potter's failed relationship with the Weaslette, and his lack of a replacement hinted at a preference for men. Draco wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he'd hoped it might be something more entertaining at the very least.

* * *

When Harry returned, Draco was innocently sitting on the couch as he read over the case file. The victims had no known connection to each other, and had all died under questionable circumstances. The only similarity was that they all seemed to be running from something. One man had thrown himself off the roof of the office building he worked at, screaming about a monster chasing him. It was the only one that made the muggle news on a major scale, and probably only because of the man's splattered remains having caused horrendous traffic delays on the street below. The second man was hit by a train that he ran in front of, but a later investigation showed that he'd gouged his eyes out with his own hands. It made the muggle news, but only suggesting that the man was a drug addict and that there wasn't anything suspicious about it. Draco wondered what they'd seen that would prompt such reactions. The third had not ran, instead he'd reportedly refused to leave his cellar, and told his wife that it was the only place he was safe from the thing chasing him. His wife burnt the house down while cooking, killing him anyway. 'Probably nothing', Potter had said. It couldn't possibly have been any more of an understatement.

"Well, what's your opinion on that mess?" Harry asked and handed Draco a cup of tea which he took a sip of without even thinking about it. He loved a challenge, and in spite of having to deal with muggles, the case was the most interesting thing he'd gotten his hands on in a while. ...Interesting enough to make putting up with Potter bearable for a while.

"I'm not entirely sure; we need more information. It's one of two things, though: A curse that causes its victim to see something they're scared shitless of, or some kind of escaped creature. I know several curses it could be, but magical creatures aren't really my thing," Draco replied thoughtfully. "The real question is the motive, which might give us some insight as to who's behind the attacks."

"I thought the same things," Harry Admitted. "But, if it was a creature we can probably assume that it would have been seen by more muggles. There aren't any reports of strange new animal species roaming London popping up on their news, though."

"True," Draco conceded. "There's nothing else to go on, though?"

"Nope. Believe it or not, the ministry doesn't let their little golden boy actually do anything dangerous," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I get the stuff no one cares about, which means no one actually investigated this. ...Either that or they expect me to do everyone else's paperwork, without questioning the stuff they try to sweep under the rug."

"Aww, they're afraid sweet widdle Potty might get a boo boo. Fucking brilliant." Draco groused. "So we really _do_ have to fraternize with muggles."

"Yup. Got any muggle clothes?" Harry replied in an equally dismal tone.

 _At least he's not enjoying it either_ , Draco thought somewhat happily. "No, why would I?"

"For situations like this!" Harry retorted.

Draco grumbled under his breath about just not wearing his robe, that his dress shirt and slacks were good enough. Harry dug in the closet nearby and threw a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt in Draco's general direction. He barely managed to dodge the jeans as they hit the wall behind where his head was with a soft thud. "Put those on for now, but buy your own for next time!" Draco wished he could just literally die for what had to be the fifth time that day. At least the clothes seemed to be clean, albeit wrinkled. How had this become his life?

* * *

The first order of business was to visit the widow of the man who had fallen from the office building. Draco sat on a couch beside Harry in her revoltingly lavender sitting room, and wondered if he'd ever been a part of anything so bloody surreal. There were little framed photos of every ugly toy poodle that the woman had ever owned on every flat surface in the room – the walls, the tables, etc. It reminded him so much of Umbridge's office that it made him literally nauseous. It was no wonder the poor bloke had offed himself. And, to top it all off, he was wearing Harry _fucking_ Potter's pants that were just a little too tight in the crotch. Potter just sat there, feeding the woman some story about how they were paranormal investigators who wanted to research the circumstances concerning her husband's death. It wasn't _entirely_ a lie. Draco squirmed uncomfortably and stared at the odd little brass Kirin statue above the mantle. It was the only thing in the room that wasn't pink or lavender. He wondered if he could cast the killing curse on himself. At least it would be over quickly, and maybe painlessly.

"Isn't that right, Draco?" Draco blinked and stared blankly at Harry.

"Yes, of course," He said smoothly, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. Maybe, if he was lucky, Potter had been talking about how good of an idea it would be to go back to the Ministry now. Or, maybe that he should just obliviate himself so he never had to remember wearing Potter's pants.

"So, we'll talk to the next family and see where to go from there," Harry said, ushering Draco out of the house. "You could at least _try_ to contribute!" He hissed once they were outside.

"I'm wearing your bloody pants!" Draco snapped as Harry vanished into thin air, apparating to the next location without him. "You absolute wanker!" He shouted and followed.

"What the hell do pants have to do with anything?" Harry demanded as they made their way up a somewhat isolated looking side street. This muggle was a little more well off and lived in what looked to be a Victorian style mansion complete with gaudy lion statues lining the driveway.

 _Old money_ , Draco reasoned and fell into step beside Harry. Apparently muggles weren't so different from wizards when it came to showing off wealth and status. He poked the nose of one of the two huge granite lion statues guarding the front door with his index figure. "Pants have everything to with it, especially when the seams are squeezing the life out of your bollocks!" Draco growled under his breath.

Harry made a gagging noise and took a few steps away from Draco. "Never mention your bollocks to me again. Also, keep those pants because if you give them back to me I'm going to light them on fire."

"Is that how you deal with all your problems, Potter? Light them on fire? Like the _Prophet_ this morning?" Draco drawled.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Harry barked and rang the bell. "I'm not gay," He added in a whisper.

"For someone who's 'not gay' you care an awful lot about my bollocks," Draco quipped without missing a beat.

"Just shut up!" Harry repeated, red in the face.

Draco barely managed not to laugh, but there was no helping the smug expression on his face. After ringing the bell a few times, they agreed that no one was home and decided to sneak inside to have a look around. Draco cast a quick charm to check for anything living nearby, but the mansion was empty. Slowly, he followed Harry who apparently had no concept of self-preservation, and had simply walked right in through the front door. The place reminded him somewhat of his own home – Antiques everywhere, and paintings that covered every inch of the walls. The paintings didn't move, of course, or remind him of how much of a disgrace he was to the Malfoy name at every given opportunity. It was almost unnerving that they were still.

"We're never going to find anything in all this crap," Harry complained.

"I don't know; they're obviously an old family and maybe collectors of some sort. It's possible there could be something cursed in here, or old magical items," Draco told him, and tapped his wand lightly against one of the many paintings. It was a portrait of a stern looking old man in a muggle business suit. He continued to stare lifelessly back at Draco. Draco scowled at him and turned around. "You take the ground floor, I'll have a look upstairs," He suggested.

"Whatever," Harry mumbled and headed into what looked like the drawing room.

Draco made his way up the stairs cautiously, casting a silencing charm before he set foot on them. The very top one still creaked. He decided that he hated this house. It was dusty, smelled of mildew, and something else. ...Something else he was trying to pretend he didn't recognize. One thing was certain, no one had been here in some time. Perhaps the unfortunate owner hadn't actually lived in the mansion. Uncertainly, Draco pushed open the closed door of the master bedroom and stepped into near total darkness. "Lumos," He mumbled and pointed his wand into the room. ...And almost screamed like a little girl at the sight before him. There was a dead body in the middle of the floor, contorted into a horrible position. He hadn't been there long, maybe a day or two, but not long enough to really start to decompose.

"Potter! Get up here!" Draco called from the top of the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: A Series of Bad Ideas**

* * *

"I can't find anything in here," Harry complained as he made his way up the stairs. "What is it? Did you find the dead guy's secret bondage room or something?"

"Not quite," Draco said sympathetically. "But there's a dead body."

Harry rushed past Draco and into the bedroom, elbowing him out of the way as he did.

"Fuck," Harry swore and took a look around the room. "Nothing else seems weird, though. I mean, aside from this entire house."

Draco nodded in silent agreement. "Look at his face, though. Ugh." The elderly man's face was frozen in an expression of utter horror. His glassy dead eyes were wide and his mouth was open in a silent scream. His hands were held out in front of him in a gesture of self-defense, and the fingers were curled in a claw-like state. It made Draco's stomach turn and the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Whatever killed the others wasn't what killed him. "And the smell in here, like the air after a thunderstorm. This was the killing curse."

"Let's spread out and have a look around up here, maybe there's a clue as to who did this," Harry ordered.

Draco didn't hesitate and was already casting a series of wandless charms to analyze the crime scene. One of his charms illuminated an invisible set of foot prints that lead to the open window.

"The killer left through the window," Draco noted. Weird. Why would a wizard climb out a window when they could just disapparate? He cast another charm to see if anything had been moved lately, a glowing light appeared in an empty spot on the large bookshelf that was against the far wall. As he approached the light, he noticed that it took the form of a small statue – just like the Kirin he'd noticed in the previous house. "What...?" He mumbled and searched the shelf that was full of nothing but old muggle books, and a pile of dusty business cards from antique shops. Draco took a quick look through them, and put them back.

"There's nothing," Harry said, appearing back in the door way.

"We need to go back to the other house," Draco said and showed Harry the glowing apparition of the Kirin statue that had been moved. "There was a sculpture that looked just like this there on her mantle."

"So you _were_ paying attention," Harry quipped.

"Of course I was. The conversation wasn't important; I was looking for clues," Draco growled, and Harry grabbed his arm, apparating them both back to the previous house. Draco stumbled and nearly fell on his arse as he gasped for breath.

"Warn me next time you feel the need to do that, Potter," He snapped and shoved Harry out of the way to knock on the door. There was no reply. Harry and Draco shared a pained glance before Draco unlocked the door. Draco grabbed the back of Harry's shirt as he made to just barge into the house. "Be quiet, you fucking moron! We were here two hours ago; the person attacking these muggles could still be inside," He whispered, and Harry jerked out of his grip.

"Which is why we need to hurry!" He snarled and ran into the house, reaching for his wand.

"Fuck's sake!" Draco cried in exasperation and followed with his wand drawn. How was Potter even still alive? No wonder the ministry didn't trust him with anything dangerous.

A quick search of the house revealed that it was empty. ...Aside from the dead body of the widow. She was laying face-down in a pool of her own blood on the living room carpet, clutching a frying pan in her limp hand. At least it looked like she'd tried to put up a fight, not that it was much use. Draco crouched beside her and tried to see if anything was out of place, aside from the Kirin statue that was missing from the mantle. So, what then? Did the attacker give it to the victims, and then come back for it and kill whoever was in his way? If so, why? None of it made a lick of sense to Draco. He searched the woman's pockets while Harry tried to scour the rest of the house in a pitiful attempt to hide how distraught he was. Draco, however, grounded himself by focusing on the task at hand. The front door was locked, so the attacker had probably apparated – which meant he knew exactly where he was going. Did he have some sort of history with these muggles? That seemed unlikely. In the woman's pocket he found a small receipt book, which he leafed through while Harry dug through the drawer of a side table behind him. One of the ugly poodle pictures fell on the ground face up next to Draco. He made a face at it, and kicked it away. The receipt book was full of records for an antique shop, more accurately the expenses of running it. Draco shoved it back into the woman's jacket and went upstairs.

The first room he meandered into was a homely little office of sorts. There he found more receipts and a ledger for the antique shop. It was another part of the puzzle, at least. There wasn't much to find about the man who had died in the fire, but these two at least had an obvious connection. The owners of the mansion were obviously antique collectors, possibly dealers. This man had owned his own shop. Draco flipped open the sales ledger and found what he was looking for. Dated for a week prior was an entry for the purchase of several items from another shop, including a 'Chinese statue' among other odds and ends. His luck held out as he turned the page and found a business card for the other shop, Hidden Treasures, tucked into the ledger. He pocketed it and went to look for Potter. He found Harry rifling through a pile of mail on the kitchen table.

"This is where we need to go," Draco said showing him the business card. "There's a receipt for a 'Chinese statue' in the ledger upstairs, and this same card was on the bedside table in the mansion. That must be where they bought the Kirin statue from."

"What's a Kirin?" Harry asked, looking at the business card.

"Well, they're sort of like a unicorn with scales and they're supposed to bring good luck. How do you not know that? Even muggle mythology talks about them," Draco explained, wondering how Potter had passed history of magic.

"Not very lucky for these poor sods, though," Harry observed astutely.

"No, I'd say not," Draco agreed. "Shall we check out this shop, fearless leader?"

He disapparated on the spot, leaving Harry behind. He found himself standing on the sidewalk in front of a small pawn shop with hand written signs that seemed about as legit as Rita Skeeter's rèsumè. The place looked like someone had emptied the contents of the mansion they had visited, and simply dumped it all in the shady little shop. Draco did not relish the idea of actually having to go in there.

Harry appeared a few seconds later. "You know, part of working a case with a partner is communication," He snapped irritably. "And not just vanishing into thin air whenever you feel like it."

"Shut it, Potter. We need results, or there's going to be more dead bodies and it'll be our fault for not solving this. Maybe you haven't got anything to prove, idiot who lived, but I do!" Draco snarled. "Wait here, I'll talk to the guy in the shop, just in case he recognizes you."

"He's probably a muggle; why would he recognize me?" Harry argued.

"We don't know that." Draco explained, almost at the end of his patience. "If he's selling cursed objects, or using it to trace the buyers so he can take it back, he might not be a muggle. Besides, one of us should stay here just in case the killer apparates. Do you have any muggle money so I can try to buy the stupid thing if he has it?"

Harry gave him a glare that could have withered the whomping willow. "No," He said after a few moments. "And I don't trust my transfiguration enough to try to make something passable. Try offering him a galleon. They're real gold and this place looks shady enough to take it for barter."

"If this doesn't work, I am going to literally kill something," Draco muttered under his breath and entered the shop. Navigating the place was tricky at best. Seemingly useless muggle junk was stacked in piles that looked like they would topple over if he breathed on them. It was really was just junk. A broken, one-eyed porcelain doll sat on a shelf, and beside it was everything from a rusty coffee tin to some kind of mechanical contraption that was most likely not in working order. Did muggles really buy this crap? Draco wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he imagined that this was probably what Arthur Weasley's wet dreams looked like. He approached the shop keeper, a large balding man that smelled of too much cologne, and cleared his throat loudly.

"Can I help you?" The man asked warily.

"Perhaps," Draco said smoothly. "I am looking for something that was stolen from my home, and I was wondering if you would be able to tell me if it had turned up here at all."

The man studied him with his beady dark eyes for a moment before replying. "If you're on about stolen property, you can bugger right off and get the bobbies; I'm not telling you shit."

"I don't see the point in involving the bobbies if you don't have my item," Draco told him, wondering what the hell a bobby was. "That would be a waste of your time, and mine."

"Fine," The shop keeper replied sourly. "What are you looking for?

"A small statue of the Chinese Kirin, solid brass, about as tall as that absolutely horrifying doll there," Draco told him, pointing at the one-eyed doll that he was relatively sure would make an appearance in his next nightmare – right along with Potter's pants that were starting to chafe his tender bits.

The color drained from the man's face as Draco spoke. "You want that thing? Take it! Take it and get out of my shop! That fucking thing is cursed! I don't know how it keeps coming back here, but the last couple of blokes that bought it went barmy and killed themselves!" He shouted, gesturing wildly for Draco to take a large, plain black lacquered box that was sitting on top of a stack of mildewed old books. Draco heaved a sigh and carefully lifted it, as it was much heavier than he thought it would be. He flipped the lid open to make sure it was indeed the Kirin, and there it sat looking innocent as could be on a bed of red velvet. Draco left without so much as even thanking the seedy pawn broker. The way Potter glared daggers at him made it worthwhile, at least. There was still something normal in his life if he was managing to piss Potter off.

"So, he took the galleons?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Nope. He begged me to take it then told me to get out," Draco drawled. "Shall we head back to the Ministry to get a proper look at this bloody thing?"

* * *

Draco was a lot less cranky back in Harry's office. He was in his own clothes, and had a cursed artifact to analyze, which happened to be his specialty. He was vaguely aware of Potter watching him like a hawk as he very carefully used a levitating charm to lift the Kirin from its lacquered box. Draco had to actually swat Harry's hands away, as he just thoughtlessly reached the statue. Rule one to dealing with magical items, Draco knew, was to _never_ touch them unless they were first deemed not to be a threat. Granted, he couldn't really hold it against Potter for being an idiot. Unlike everyone else who wanted to be an Auror, he had been allowed to bypass all the formal training – perks of killing the Dark Lord, apparently. He almost pitied him. Draco reigned in his thoughts on the task at hand. All the standard charms for curse detection turned up nothing. After throwing everything he knew at it, Draco was forced to accept that it was just a worthless hunk of brass. There wasn't the faintest hint of magic on it, aside from very weak residual traces of a tracking charm that had since been removed.

"It's clean," Draco said in disappointment. "There was a tracking charm on it at some point, but nothing else."

"What type of tracking charm?" Harry asked, picking up the Kirin to look at the bottom of it – which was bare aside from a small label that said 'made in China'.

"Standard, nothing special," Draco explained in a bored tone. "The caster would be able to locate the statue within a certain area, probably not much further than a few kilometers – if that. It was mediocre spell work at best, and isn't working anymore."

Draco hated to admit it, but aside from the verbal sparring and Potter's lack of caution, they actually worked relatively well together – almost instinctively. Hoping to find _something_ of use, Draco examined the box more closely and checked it for magical signatures as well. The box was also clean, other than smelling of sage incense. There was a small parchment scroll tied with a bit of red ribbon that had apparently been tucked underneath the Kirin. Curiously, Draco untied the ribbon and read the scroll. It was instructions for some sort of ridiculous ritual to bring luck. He rolled his eyes and tossed the ribbon over his shoulder to Princess who gleefully snatched it, and pranced behind the couch with it hanging from her mouth. Harry read it as well, reacting in a similar manner.

"Pointless muggle nonsense," Draco whinged.

"Pretty much," Harry agreed. "Wanna try it, you know, for shits and giggles?"

"It's a waste of good potion ingredients," Draco pointed out, snatching the scroll back. "But we do have all of them in the storage cabinet down the hall. I guess we might as well. Maybe it has something to do with the deaths, and does serve a purpose. Worst case scenario, nothing will happen. ...Or someone will find out, and take the piss out of us about it for the rest of our lives, because this is _that_ stupid."

"Right, I'll get the stuff. Clear a spot on the desk," Harry said, and vanished into the hall.

Draco tried not to have a breakdown. He could only imagine his father's reaction if he'd seen him now, never mind how he would have felt about him becoming an Auror. Maybe he should send an owl to Azkaban. What would he say? 'Hello father, I've become everything you warned me not to, and now my entire future depends on being Potter's little bitch' – Something like that, Draco supposed. Lucius didn't matter, not really. Draco still felt like his opinion held some weight, even though he knew full well that that his father was a selfish twat, who asked too much of others and not enough of himself. He only wished he'd realized it sooner. He really hoped Potter would just come back and dismiss him for the night, because it was getting late and Draco had tolerated enough of his shit for one day.

Swishing his wand a little too violently, he levitated the majority of the paperwork cluttering the desk onto the couch. Princess hissed at him in protest as a stack of scrolls landed on her head and scattered all over the floor. She darted under the desk, and growled at him as he worked. Draco flicked his wand at the scrolls he'd dropped, adding them to the pile on the couch. He wondered if he should buy a new wand, if anyone would even sell him one. It was never quite right after Potter returned it. Even the simplest spells sometimes failed, though his last instructor in the Auror training program had blamed him. Hawthorn, apparently, is temperamental and the fault lies with him alone for not being able to master it. That was what they told him, anyway. Draco wasn't sure what to blame, but it was about as useful as that broken piece of refuse Weasley had used in the second year at Hogwarts, and here he was supposed to be a bloody Auror. Of course, he didn't dare tell Potter he could barely cast a summoning charm. If nothing else, he'd gotten very good at wandless magic, and making it look like it wasn't wandless to keep others from asking questions.

"Can't anything be easy?" Draco muttered to himself and plopped the Kirin statue down on the center of the desk, leaving the box open on the couch. Princess dove inside of it and curled up, making sure to watch him with a venomous stare. "You're a miserable little cunt, you know that?" He said to her and flopped gracelessly into Harry's armchair. She mewled in reply, and turned around so that her arse was facing him instead. He barely managed to fight down the urge to hex her, or turn her fur orange, but only because he knew there was a good chance of it backfiring on him. "I'm having a pissing match with a fucking kneasle," Draco lamented and dropped his head down onto the desk.

"I do that all the time, she's about as agreeable as you are. But sometimes she snuggles with me, so I guess I don't hate her." Draco ignored Harry as he shut the door behind him and deposited the spell ingredients on the desk. "So, it says to draw a pentacle in chalk on the surface first, then sit the Kirin in the middle of it. After that we make a mixture with a consecrated oil base and pour it over the statue."

"What type of oil?" Draco asked without looking up.

"It doesn't say, so we're using mandrake oil. That's all there was that's 'consecrated' anyway," Harry explained, shoving that statue aside so he could draw the diagram outlined in the scroll.

Draco rested his head on his arms and watched. "This is stupid," He drawled, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, it is, but I'm bored and out of ideas," Harry answered. "Would you mind grinding those aye aye bones to a powder?"

Draco emptied the contents a small bag into the marble mortar Harry had brought with him. "Aren't those things a symbol of death for muggles?" He asked, slowly grinding the bits of bone to dust. The bones were so dried out, Draco wondered how long they'd been in the store cabinet. "Seems odd for a luck spell."

"Probably because they are magical. I mean, they're not really a threat, but they do have dark powers. Insignificant ones that can cause nightmares, but that's it really," Harry replied, reaching for a glass jar containing a pickled owl heart.

"Owls are also symbols of death in some muggle cultures," Draco commented, frowning. "I think this is a bad idea."

"Well, it's not like it's asking for graveyard dirt or the fingers from a hand of glory," Harry quipped. "But yeah, it is a little weird."

Draco sighed and shoved the mortar full of bone dust across the desk to Potter. "What's next?"

"Ugh, gross, grind up the owl heart into a pulp with the bone dust," Potter said, wrinkling his nose. "Then squish in four raven's eyes, mix in the oil, and add a few drops of our blood."

"Nope, not mine. Your blood, Potter," Draco countered. "No way."

"We're in this together now," Harry replied, mushing the owl heart which made an absolutely grotesque squelching sound.

"That's _disgusting,_ " Draco complained. "And no, this was your moronic idea."

"Come on, Malfoy. Don't be a wuss. This isn't even going to work anyway," Harry pressed.

"Only if it will make you stop talking, and you swear on your life that you won't tell anyone that I was involved in this muggle idiocy," Draco retorted, too tired of his crap to care anymore. He was probably right. The mixture wasn't exactly a potion. Without any real method to how the components were added, and _maybe_ using the right oil, the odds were pretty good that it really was just a waste of time and ingredients. _Rare_ ingredients. When was the last time he'd even seen aye aye bones or claws? He knew for sure he'd never used them. He had a jar at home in his potions lab full of their eyes that had been a gift from Snape in his fifth year, but he'd never seen a potion recipe that called for them. He shook his head and spooned four shiny black raven's eyes into the mixture as Harry mushed it into a thick paste.

"All right, add the oil," Harry said, carefully pouring the mandrake oil into the large mortar.

Draco watched wordlessly as he mixed it together, and pulled a silver knife out of his desk drawer when it was done. Draco considered once again refusing to add his blood to the mixture as Harry pricked the tip of his thumb, and squeezed a few drops of blood into the sludge they'd created. He handed the knife to Draco, and he took it without comment. After an agonized sigh, he pressed his index finger against the blade and let a few drops of blood fall into the mortar. What was he going to do? Let Potter think he was scared of some stupid muggle hoodoo? Still, Draco had a bad feeling about this, and he knew better than to ignore his gut. He licked the blood from his fingertip, tasting iron on his tongue.

"Now what?" Draco asked as Harry stirred the blood into the concoction.

"We pour it over the statue, then light the oil on fire," Harry explained. "I already fire-proofed the desk. Let's do this. You pour it; I'll light it up."

Draco held the mortar above the statue slowly started pouring it over its head. Harry lit the oil with a swish of his wand, and Draco counted it as a fucking miracle that his sleeves didn't catch fire. He sat the empty mortar beside the statue and watched in silence as the flames burned away the oil mixture, slowly diminishing into a thin haze of steam coming off the statue.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," Draco groused, leaning over the statue. "It smells like a troll's arsehole in here now." Princess mewled in agreement and shoved her face into the couch cushions.

"Ugh," Harry groaned and pinched his nose. "Yeah, let's call it a night. That was stupid. We're never speaking of it again, agreed?"

"Completely. Now throw that thing in the bin where it belongs," Draco said, waving at the statue. Harry levitated it back into its box, and dropped it next to the waste paper basket.

"See you in the morning, Malfoy," Harry said curtly.

"Whatever, Potter," Draco quipped and was out of the door before the words even finished leaving his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** I'm having fun writing this. I wasn't sure how good I would be at writing Harry (which is why this is Draco-centered), but I think I'm getting his characterization down okay. Please comment! I want to know how I'm doing!

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Welcome to Hell**

* * *

It wasn't until Draco made it back home to the manor that the reality of his situation really set in. He was absolutely doomed. Completely, and utterly fucked up the arse sideways. His future, everything he'd spent the past seven years working for, could be undone if he pissed Potter off enough. Granted, they could at least have a civil conversation now. ...Without punching each other in the face, after having spent the past few years working in the same branch of the Ministry. But, their paths rarely crossed other than sometimes exchanging an obligatory polite greeting in passing. Now, however, they had to share an office and function in the field as partners. Yeah, he was screwed – assuming Potter's tendency to rush into danger head-first didn't get them both killed. Damn him and his hero complex. He took a shuddering breath and resigned himself to six months of absolute hell, comparable only to his sixth year in Hogwarts, but not quite as terrible as living with Voldemort. Hopefully Potter wouldn't accidentally try to kill him while he was busy crying in a girl's toilet again. All these years later, and the memory still made his insides crawl unpleasantly.

Once upon a time, he was a (mostly) innocent child who only wanted to be friends with Potter. As he got older, the disappointment over the rejection turned to jealousy, then to hatred. Yet, when the golden trio had shown up at his manor, he couldn't bring himself to turn Harry over to Voldemort. In the end, the stupid git had defended him at the death eater trials, and returned his wand. Maybe his wand wasn't as obedient as it should be, but Draco appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Harry might have killed Voldemort, but Draco wielded the weapon that did it. The thought was a sobering one. With a sigh, he wandered down the stone path that led to the manor as the wards didn't allow for apparition directly inside the grounds. ...What was he going to tell his mother?

Something seemed off about the manor grounds as Draco approached his family home – something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his wand that was hidden inside the sleeve of his robes. _I'm being paranoid_ , he told himself and continued on the path, not letting go of his wand. He felt cold all of a sudden, not physically cold, but like his entire being was filled with dread. Fear, maybe, not just dread. Draco took a few hesitant steps forward. Someone or something was watching him, but from where? The manor wards should have been able to keep pretty much anything out. It felt like a dementor, but that didn't make sense. There hadn't been any dementors left after the war, had there? Draco gathered his wits and walked quickly to the manor. He prayed his mother was safe. Narcissa wasn't the most pleasant person in the world, especially after he chose to become an Auror, but she was still his mother and she cared about him in her own twisted way. It hurt to think on it, but Draco was pretty sure she was the only who _did_ care at all about his well being. Once inside, Draco shut the doors behind him and the feeling of dread vanished. He found his mother sitting in the drawing room reading a novel of some sort.

"You're up late," He said cordially.

She glanced at him over the top of her book. "As are you."

"Long day at work," Draco supplied and sat in the chair adjacent to her. "I've been apprenticed to Potter," He added, unable to keep the utter misery out of his voice.

Narcissa marked her page and snapped the book shut. "Some would call that poetic justice, but you should use the situation to your advantage. Being seen with Potter will do good things for the Malfoy name."

"Fuck the 'Malfoy name'! This is _my_ future, that _I've_ sacrificed everything for! My fate shouldn't be his to decide!" Draco shouted, and flinched as his mother reached across the small mahogany table and smacked him across the face with murder in her eyes. She might have gotten older, certainly in more ways than one after the war, but Narcissa Malfoy was still... Narcissa Malfoy – even if her hair had gone mostly white save for a small stripe of black left on the right side of her face. Draco knew she cared, which she only expressed by pushing him to be his best, even though she very rarely showed actual kindness these days. She was tired; he knew that. They both were.

"Stop acting like a child, Draco." She said in an even, emotionless tone. "If currying favor with someone you despise is all it takes to find the redemption you insist on seeking, than you should consider fate to have been very generous indeed. Count yourself blessed to even have to worry about someone else deciding your path for you. The way things were, you're lucky that you are alive today to be angry about it."

Shakily, Draco touched his cheek where she'd hit him. It had been years since she'd smacked him, and she'd only ever done so once. The last time, he recalled, was was for telling her that Lucius was where he belonged – rotting in Azkaban. It was the night after the trial, and then that Draco had let go of the last shred of respect he had for his father. Draco, at least, knew that he had to admit that he was wrong, and take responsibility for his mistakes. Lucius couldn't do that. Instead, he made excuses and placed the blame for his own actions on others. Yet, there was a very good possibility that Draco was going to cock-up everything he'd done so far to prove to the wizarding community that he wasn't the monster they thought he was. Maybe he wanted to be that monster once, but now he knew better.

"It's just not fair," Draco pouted.

"Stop sniveling. This is beneath you, and you know it. If I have learned a single thing in this life, it is that _nothing_ is fair." Narcissa chastised him. If Draco felt regret, it was for upsetting his mother, not for what he had said. "Draco, the way you carry on about Potter – have _always_ carried on about Potter, it seems almost like you fancy him. Keep in mind, that won't do your reputation any favors if others see it that way," Narcissa commented irritably and swept out of the drawing room.

Draco swore under his breath and carded his fingers through his already disheveled white-blonde locks. Did it really look that way? Him? Fancy Potter? He'd rather bugger a blast-ended skrewt. It was no secret that he was gay. Well, not since Blaise _fucking_ Zabini outed him to the Daily prophet a few months ago. The headline still made him cringe. 'The Death Eater Who Shagged Me', it had read. The fiasco nearly cost both of them their jobs, as Blaise was technically his superior and sleeping with him was apparently an ethics violation. The idiot should have known better. The sex hadn't even been good, if Draco was going to be honest about it. Blaise wasn't exactly patient, and Draco hadn't been entirely convinced it was a good idea. All around, it was an experience he would give anything to forget – except that no one would _let_ him forget it.

Lucius, from his cell in Azkaban, had gone out of his way to send an owl with a howler at least twice a week. Usually they were the normal 'you're a disappointment' type of thing. Sometimes they were particularly venomous, and called him everything from a ponce to an abomination. Lucius had, in no uncertain terms, disowned him as his son and as a Malfoy. Narcissa, oddly enough, was neither surprised nor particularly upset. She had just shrugged, tossed the _Daily Prophet_ into the fireplace beside her, and told him to at least shag blokes with a little more class than Zabini in the future. Other than that, his mother hadn't brought the subject up again. He almost wished she would. Deep down, Draco was very conflicted about his interest in men, and had been since he first started thinking about it in his early teens. His upbringing, obviously, taught that such things were off limits. Narcissa, he assumed, was simply beyond caring anymore. It hadn't been until the mess with Blaise that he'd actually found the courage to try anything. Really, he wished he had someone to talk about it with, to sort out the mess in his head. Still, who would he tell? The idea of having a heart to heart with his mother about his sexual insecurities was laughable.

"Fuck me," Draco whinged and vacated the tea room. "And fuck you, too." He added as he passed Lucius' portrait in the hall, and his likeness started ranting about him being a filthy blood-traitor, and a disgrace to his ancestors.

Draco headed straight for the bath, deciding that it just wouldn't do to go to bed smelling like Potter's spare muggle clothes – not after his mother's comment. He sighed and sank into the bubbly, lavender scented water, letting the warmth ease the tension out of his body. He didn't even know what time it was, just that it was definitely after midnight. Just as he let his eyes slide closed, and rested his head against the edge of the huge white marble tub, he heard a low growling nearby. It sounded like a dog, but not any dog he'd ever heard. Draco sat bolt upright, his heart pounding in his chest. His wand was on top of the writing desk in his bedroom, and he was arse naked in a bathtub. How was he going to defend himself? He was able to cast most basic charms wandlessly, but he hadn't mastered hexes or defensive spells without one yet. The sound didn't come again, though.

"I'm a train wreck. On fire. Fucking Potter, wait, no... Not fucking and Potter in the same sentence," He groaned and sank back into the bath, his heart still racing. He was imagining things; that was the only logical explanation. Nothing could have gotten through the wards. He was being paranoid. But then, paranoia was second nature to him after sharing his home with the Dark Lord and his minions. It wasn't the first time it had gotten the better of him, and wouldn't be the last. Maybe he really should see a mind healer. His mother, and more than one of his trainers in the Auror program, had been on his case about it for ages. 'Paranoia can save your hide in this field, Malfoy. In your case, however, having an anxiety attack while fighting off dark wizards is probably going to be how you die.' - That was what Jennings, one of his first trainers, had told him at least. Draco may or may not have agreed with him. Mercy, his defensive charms trainer, had told him that she thought he had what muggles called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that maybe being Auror wasn't good for his mental health. He'd liked her, in spite of her being a muggle born. She was an utterly selfless woman who, if she hadn't been killed while cleaning out a death eater safe house a month ago, Draco might have considered talking with about his gay crisis.

...Gay crisis. Maybe Potter _was_ gay. He had a pet kneazle for fuck's sake. With his fame, he could have literally any woman he wanted – so why didn't he? It had been what, five years since he broke up with the Weaslette?

"No. Don't go there; don't even _think_ about it. _Stop,_ " Draco berated himself aloud. Why did he even care? Potter was, and always would be a complete wanker. Kind of a shame, considering he was pretty fit. _Again, not going there,_ he reminded himself. Not with Harry, arsehole who saved the world, Potter. Draco stepped out of the tub and wandlessly dried the water from his skin, inhaling sharply as the cold air hit him. He threw on his silk night clothes and flopped face first into his bed. He fell asleep, or passed out from exhaustion, a few moments afterward.

* * *

It was cold. Draco's breath rose before him in hazy clouds as he stumbled through the undergrowth of a lush ancient forest. Was it the forbidden forest on the Hogwarts grounds? He wasn't sure. He didn't spend a whole lot of time there; he was scared shitless of the place after that detention from hell in his first year. Something was following him; he could hear its grunting breaths as it followed. Draco ran, pulling his robes up above his knees, hoping he wouldn't trip and fall on the massive tree roots that covered the forest floor. In the back of his mind, he knew there was a river nearby. He'd be safe if he could make it to the river. The further he got, the less life there was in the woods. The trees grew thinner, and the undergrowth turned to dead leaves and husks of small shrubs. The sounds of birds singing, which had been almost deafening in the beginning, slowly died out as well. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing, and the steady, nearly silent footsteps of the thing following him. Panting, and gasping for breath Draco pressed on and ignored the pain as his lungs burned for air. He could hear the river now. Just a little further. His footsteps became shaky, and he wobbled unsteadily on his feet as he crashed through the silent woods.

"Can't..." He whimpered, and snagged his foot in the lifeless roots of a long dead tree. He fell hard, knocking the wind out of his chest. He cried out in pain as he felt the bones in his trapped leg snap under the pressure of his weight. He heard it again, the growling he'd heard in the bathroom. Sensing his death, he turned to look at the thing following him. A hulking beast of a dog stood over him, glowing yellow eyes lolling back in its head as it inched closer. Its body seemed to be made of a thick, black smoke and the air around it smelled like putrid, rotting flesh. Draco screamed as it lunged at him.

He woke up screaming and drenched in sweat – just in time to smack his head on his nightstand as he rolled right out of his bed, and onto the floor with a loud thud. Panting and gripping a stitch in his side as if he'd actually been running like in the nightmare, he snatched his wand from the nightstand.

"Lumos," He gasped, and screamed again. The dog was there, lurking in the shadows and revealed by the wandlight. No, not a dog, Draco knew. A Grim. He panicked, and bolted out of the room. The Grim followed. He escaped the manor through a side entrance in one of the servants' corridors, not daring to lure the thing near the west wing where his mother stayed. He kept running, right to the edge of the woods surrounding the manor and stopped. The woods from the dream. It had probably been these woods. He couldn't go there. Just as the Grim lunged, he disapparated on the spot and landed on his arse in the atrium of the Ministry. Gripping his wand so hard that it threatened to break, he took stock of his surroundings. He could sense it nearby, outside perhaps. The Ministry's wards were too strong for it to enter. With his heart hammering a hole into his ribcage, Draco got into the nearest elevator and smashed the button for the Auror department's floor so hard with the butt of his wand, that it cracked the glass covering it.

Without even knocking, he kicked open the door for Potter's office, hoping to find the bloody Kirin statue and smash it to pieces. Now that he was starting to think again, he _knew_ what he'd seen and it had something to do with it. It had to. Was that what the muggles who died had been running from? A Grim? It made sense. It wouldn't take a genius to recognize death itself when they saw it.

"Malfoy?" Draco stopped in his tracks and looked up. Potter was sitting on his couch in a fetal position with his knees drawn to his chest. Princess sat beside him, nuzzling him, and completely ignored. He was in a set of ridiculous red and yellow striped pajamas, and wearing a pair of slippers with moving snitches sewn on them. Draco looked down at his own bare feet, and emerald green silk bed clothes.

"Fuck." He mumbled and folded his arms across his chest. "Potter, what the bloody hell did we do? How did we summon a fucking Grim with that stupid muggle ritual?"

"So you saw it too? I thought I was losing my mind," He replied, obviously shaken.

"It was chasing me through the woods, the ones surrounding my manor, I think. It was a dream. But when I woke up, it was there. In. My. Room." Draco ground out, pacing the office like a caged animal. "I apparated here, I think it followed me but it can't get into the Ministry because of the wards. How did it get past the manor's wards?!"

"Same here. Except in my dream I was running through the streets of muggle London near my house, and it cornered me in an alleyway. I think it can't get in my house, or tell where it is exactly because of the Fidelius charm and wards, but I could see it outside. It was just sort of pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside." Harry answered, staring up at him with wide eyes. "You know, at first I thought it was Sirius, but then I remembered, that well... That he's... Dead."

"This is absolutely, _one hundred percent_ , your fault, Potter," Draco accused, panicking. He needed to get his shit together. He couldn't let Potter see through his facade of being a relatively collected, functional human being.

"Yeah, I know. I know," He replied, not even arguing. "Hermione's in the library downstairs trying to see what she can find."

"Granger?" Draco asked, frowning. "What does she think she'll find in the sodding library?"

"Weasley, she married Ron, remember? But yeah. That's just what Hermione does. Something went tits up? Hit the library," Harry explained, reaching down to pet Princess' head. "She's always been like that, and somehow always finds the answers."

Draco sighed in defeat sat down beside Princess. She looked at him expectantly, and he patted her on the head. She didn't bite him, purred, and made herself comfortable in the spot between him and Harry. Draco let his head fall against the back of the couch and screwed his eyes shut. He felt a meltdown coming, and he couldn't think of anything worse than Potter being a witness to it.

"Where's the bloody statue?" Draco asked, without opening his eyes.

"In the cursed objects vault," Harry answered wearily.

"Good."

"Uh huh."

The silence that followed seemed like it would never end, and was interrupted only by Princess purring. What seemed like an eternity later, Hermione came running back into the office. Potter must have woken her up in the middle of the night, Draco reasoned. She wasn't wearing night clothes like they were, but it looked like she'd thrown on the t-shirt and jeans she'd been wearing the day before. Her bushy hair stuck out at odd angles, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"So, I have no idea how that 'ritual' worked. Technically speaking, it shouldn't have done anything. There must have been some other sort of curse on the statue that you missed, Harry," She said, plopping down into the chair behind his desk like she owned the place. "Oh, hello, Malfoy. Pleasant dreams, I take it?"

Draco only grunted in reply and hid his face in his hands.

"You two are the _worst_ Aurors ever. Why would you think doing this was a good idea? Even if the spell looked like bogus, I haven't seen anything where those ingredients are used for something benevolent," Hermione admonished them when they didn't answer. "Everyone would be so disappointed in you, Harry! And you, Malfoy, I thought you were trying to be better than this!"

"Hermione, stop. It's not his fault. It was my idea," Harry insisted miserably.

"Quit playing the hero, Potter. I didn't stop you, did I?" Draco snarled.

"You tried to. Like six times," Harry countered.

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is! You're both going to die if you don't find a way to banish it! There's nothing in the library," Hermione replied, sounding defeated. "I will get to the bottom of this, though. In the meantime, I think you should go back to Grimmauld place and don't leave. Draco, you should go as well unless your manor has wards to keep it out. It's probably for the best if you two stay close to each other."

Draco stared at her in silence. Had she just called him by his first name? "No. I can't leave my mother in the manor alone. What if it goes for her instead?"

"If you explain the situation to her, perhaps she would be willing to stay here in the ministry, or allow some Aurors to strengthen the wards on your manor?" Hermione suggested, as always the voice of reason.

"Actually, is it too late to just let it kill me? She will disembowel me with her bare hands if she finds out about this," Draco replied sheepishly.

Harry snorted with barely concealed laughter. "If she didn't kill you over that article in the _Prophet_ a few months back, I doubt she'll kill you for this," He quipped.

Draco almost wanted to hug Hermione for the sour glare that she gave Potter.

"Don't call the kettle black, Harry," She admonished him. "I'm going to get us a cuppa, and we're going to figure this out. I'll be right back. Try not to kill each other while I'm out."

"I am absolutely _not_ going to have some kind of stupid sleepover at your house, Potter," Draco drawled, trying to think of how to strengthen the manor wards. His main concern was was his mother, and how to protect her without her finding out about this particularly embarrassing screw up.

"Kind of a shame, Malfoy. I was looking forward to painting your nails, while we bond over watching muggle chick flicks together all night," Harry snapped back.

"You'll just have to make do without me, darling," Draco said, wondering when the hell Potter had gotten so sarcastic. He decided it was a good change. If nothing else, it made their passive aggressive verbal sniping a little more entertaining. "On a more serious note, I'm going home. I'll strengthen the wards, and then I'll help Gran – _Hermione_ with her research. I'm sure the archives in the manor will have something relevant."

"Fine, but it's not my fault if you die," Harry commented dully.

"I don't need you to save me!" Draco snarled a little more venomously than intended.

"What makes you think I want to?"

"Nothing. Piss off, Potter."

Draco stormed out of the office, barely able to suppress his rage. Harry was still a total twat, all these years later. Why would he expect otherwise? He hoped Potter wasn't sitting there laughing at him as sulked out of the office. He couldn't have looked particularly intimidating while barefoot and in wrinkled silk pajamas.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Sorry if Draco seems like kind of a pussy. That isn't my intention. I just figure that on the inside he's a train wreck on fire, and really good at hiding it. Or, he used to be really good at hiding it, but not so much anymore.

 **Warnings:** PTSD

* * *

 **Chapter 4: A Dance With Death**

* * *

The Grim was nowhere to be seen when Draco returned to the manor at dawn. Narcissa was having her morning tea in the drawing room while reading the _Daily Prophet._ She nodded her head to him, but thankfully didn't ask where he had been, or why he was wandering around barefoot. Dejectedly, he went to his bedroom and quickly dressed himself in a pair of grey slacks with a white dress shirt and vest. He left his robes draped over the back of the chair near his writing desk. He didn't bother trying to tidy up his messy hair. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to go and talk to his mother about patching the manor's defenses.

Narcissa looked up from the _Prophet_ when Draco sat beside her. He hated the drawing room, and how empty it felt with only them sitting together at one of the small tables in the corner. To be fair, if he'd had his way, Draco would have had the entire area stripped and redecorated – from the floor the ceiling. Too many unspeakable things had happened in that room. Yet, His mother sat there drinking tea like it was all a bad dream. To be fair, she hadn't been there for most of it. She never became a death eater. Draco, on the other hand, couldn't even look at the shiny black marble floor tiles without having flashbacks to the multiple times Voldemort, or one of his lackeys, had cast _crucio_ on him for being a shit death eater. He spent a lot of time on that floor writhing in pain. He gripped the tea cup his mother handed him so hard he wondered how it didn't break.

"Mother, I need your help to strengthen the manor wards. Potter and I ran into some foul cursed object on the job yesterday, and well... There may or may not be a Grim hunting me," Draco forced himself to say. Yes, that would do. She didn't need to know that it wouldn't have happened if they hadn't been colossal idiots.

"Well, it's not a _real_ Grim or we wouldn't be having this conversation," Narcissa answered flatly. "They don't 'hunt'. They're just omens of death, and normally one dies within an hour or so of seeing it."

"Yes, well-"

"Are you sure it's not in your head? I heard you screaming last night, I assumed it was the usual nightmares. The house elves assured me that nothing was amiss – other than you running out of the manor in your pajamas," Narcissa replied. "Draco, you should see a mind healer."

"Are you implying that I am _imagining_ this? We've been over this, mother. I am fine. A little damaged, I'll admit, but fine," Draco said wearily. It couldn't be in his head, right? Potter _had_ seen it. "I'm going to work on the wards," He added and got up from his chair. He was almost too tired to function, and his stomach growled at the sight of a plate full of scones on the table. He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth, ignoring his mother's visible disapproval of his lack of manners.

"Sometimes I wonder, Draco. You haven't been yourself in long time."

"How could I be, after everything that's happened?" He snapped.

"I know you won't listen, but I truly believe you should rethink your career choice," Narcissa pressed. "I worry for you."

"You worry too much."

"Someday, when you have children of your own, you will understand," She said icily, and rose from her chair. "I will help see to the wards if it will put your mind at ease, though nothing should be able to get through them as they are."

"Thank you, mother. Just work on the west wing and the drawing room; I'll see to the rest."

By sunset, the manor wards were enhanced to be as close to the strength of the Ministry's as Draco and Narcissa could manage. Only the drawing room had been left untouched, as they had both ran out of energy and doubted it would be a problem. Frankly, it wasn't perfect, but if his calculations were right, the shields would repel almost anything and prevent apparition throughout the entire manor grounds. Feeling confident that he had thwarted the Grim for the time being, he decided to turn in early. He could hardly remember the last time he was this tired. He didn't even bother to change out of his clothes before he collapsed into his bed.

* * *

Draco was running through the woods – _again_. This time he knew which woods, though. He was near the manor, just outside the gardens, where he sometimes played as a child. The ruins of a medieval village rested nearby, nearly swallowed whole by the thick undergrowth. There was a little church there built entirely of crude stone. If he could make it there, he might be safe from the Grim. It shadowed his every footstep. Draco hoped the old church was still hallowed ground, where something so blatantly evil wouldn't be able to set foot. Yes, we would be safe there. At least until the sun came up. He hadn't seen the thing during the day yet, after all.

The village was in Draco's sight now, and the glow of torches shone through the haze of trees. That didn't make any sense. The place had been abandoned for centuries. As he approached, he realized that light came not from torches, but from a bonfire. No, not a bonfire. A pyre. A ghostly woman screamed in agony as the not quite real flames licked at her body. All around, more ghosts seemed to appear out of thin air, chanting 'Burn the witch!' and waving torches. Behind Draco, the Grim growled. He came to his senses and bolted through the open door of the church. He wished he had something to block the opening with, but the wooden doors had long since rotted away. When he entered, the vision of the burning woman and the frenzied villagers vanished. He sat on the floor as silence descended around him, echoes of 'Burn the witch!' resounding in his head.

He leaned against the crumbling remains of an old wooden pew and finally allowed himself to breathe. I'm safe, Draco told himself. Just as he started to relax, he felt hot breath on his cheek. Flinching, he threw himself behind the stone alter nearby. He gripped his wand tightly, wondering if it would slip right out of his sweaty palm.

"No! No! Fuck!" Draco swore and picked up a strip of dry wood that had broken from one of the mouldering pews and held it in his spare hand. The Grim snarled and slowly approached as if it was savoring the moment. It knew full well that it had him cornered.

"Incendio!" He whispered, and set the end of the wooden piece on fire. The Grim balked and took a few paces back, the hair bristling along its back. _It doesn't like fire_ , Draco noted and cautiously inched forward. The Grim stepped back, but never far enough to be out of striking range. It knew the makeshift torch wouldn't last. His whole body shaking, Draco managed to maneuver himself so that the exit was to his back. He threw the burning wood at the Grim and kicked the remnants of another pew in its direction in one fluid motion, as he turned and ran out of the church – only to stop dead in his tracks. The screaming started again, and the chanting. He covered his ears with his hands, as if it would all stop if he willed it away. It wasn't the words that gave him pause, though. It was the woman tied to the stake in the pyre. She reached her hand out, beckoning him.

His moment of hesitation, of course, was fatal. The enraged Grim, with it's fur still on fire, was upon him in an instant. He had only one thought in his mind as he woke up screaming – he needed to get out of the manor.

Gasping for breath, he sat up and felt for his wand beside him. It took a few seconds for his sleep-hazed mind to realize that he was touching something soft, and not his bedside table. ...Something soft and covered in coarse fur. Draco's heart leaped into his throat as low growling filled the room. If anyone ever asked him, he'd never be able to explain exactly _how_ he managed to summon his wand with a mere thought, and simultaneously punch a Grim in the face without dying – but he did just that. Running on pure terror and adrenaline, he vaulted out of the opposite side of the bed and booked it into the hall as fast as his legs would carry him. The grim howled; Draco only heard a battle cry. Everything the night before had been a rehearsal. Tonight though, the real battle began. It was war, and Draco refused to be defeated.

The Grim was fast, faster than it was in the nightmares. Draco's legs burned as he tore through the halls, but the Grim knew to lurch ahead and block him as he tried to turn in any direction that led to an exit. If he didn't find a way out, he was going to die. Even before enhancing the wards, apparition was impossible inside of the manor itself. Panic seized him as he realized he was heading straight for the drawing room. It was a dead end behind the huge oaken double doors at the end of the hall before him. He was cornered. _It doesn't like fire,_ he reminded himself and hoped there was still a fire burning in the grate. He whipped his wand in the direction of the doors and thanked fucking mercy that his wand didn't malfunction as they slammed open. Somehow, he managed to throw himself forward and shut the doors behind him before the Grim was able to slip through.

Panting for breath, and on the verge of passing out from sheer need of air, he cast a non-verbal _incendio_ at the fireplace that contained only the faintly glowing embers of the previous fire. It roared to life as the Grim threw itself against the doors, threatening to burst into the room. Except, it didn't. All Draco heard was a high pitched yelp, and the distinct sound of something being flung forcefully against the far wall. Frowning, Draco reached out and pressed his hand against the doors to test the defensive charms in place. It was an enchantment he didn't recognize, but he knew dark magic when he felt it – and the unique signature of the one that cast it. A shiver ran down his spine and he pulled his hand away. Voldemort must have added extra shields to the drawing room when he was using it as his own little throne room. Did the Dark Lord just unwittingly save his life from beyond the grave?

Draco laughed out loud at the irony of it all, and collapsed on his knees. Out in the hall, the Grim let out a howl of frustration and charged the doors again, only to be repelled even harder. Draco laughed himself hoarse and wondered how the hell this had become his life.

So, he knew three things he could use to his advantage: It hated fire, didn't come out during daylight hours, and it couldn't get into the drawing room. The only downside, was that he would never be able to sleep in the drawing room. Just being in there made his skin crawl. He could still see Nagini slithering across the meeting table, devouring the fresh bodies of whatever poor bastard that the death eaters brought for her. He'd have to stay at the ministry. ...But staying at the Ministry meant explaining why he was there. No, his only option was to take Hermione's advice and stay with Potter.

...Hermione. Hadn't the woman in his nightmare looked a bit like her?

"Fuck," Draco swore, and grabbed a handful of floo powder from the silver urn next to the grate. He didn't dare call one of the house elves, it wasn't worth the risk of the Grim being able to get through if the doors were opened. He knew he couldn't travel by the floo, but he could make a fire-call at least. "Auror Potter's office, Ministry of magic fourth floor." He said, he voice raspy from his still labored breathing.

"Potter?" He called, only to be met with silence. He gave it a few minutes and stepped back from the fireplace. Absently, Draco picked at his sweat drenched undershirt. He'd give anything for a bath. Who else could he call to check on Hermione? He didn't know Potter's actual address and he'd mentioned a Fidelius charm, so he wouldn't be able to do shit without knowing it. The reverse was also true if any of the others tried to contact him at the manor, except the golden trio, of course – since they'd actually been there during the war.

"Shit. Shit. Fuck!" Draco paced the length of the drawing room like a caged kneazle. "Wait. The kneazle!"

"Auror Potter's office, Ministry of magic fourth floor!" He repeated throwing another handful of floo powder into the fire.

"Princess!" He yelled, hoping she was still in the office. A few moments later, he was reward with a soft mewling. He hoped she was as smart as kneazles were supposed to be. "You need find someone – _anyone_ – and bring them to talk with me! Hurry!"

He was answered with another soft mewl, and he sat on the carpet in front of the fire hoping this idiotic plan would work. About ten minutes later, he heard the tell-tale squeak of someone opening the door to the office and frantic mewling. "Sod off you little bugger. What do you even want?"

 _Oh, hell_ , Draco complained inwardly. "Weasley!" He shouted.

"What do you want, Malfoy? You know normal people are asleep at this hour," Draco barely managed to remind himself that this was a _very_ bad time to start a pissing match with Potter's best friend, as Ron's face appeared in his fireplace.

"Hermione, is she safe?" Draco asked breathlessly.

"Yeah? I mean she's downstairs in the library, and buggered if I know how I got sucked into helping to fix your mess, but she won't let me sleep until I find something useful," Ron answered, frowning. "Why? What are you on about?"

"I thought the manor wards could keep it out with a few added defensive spells. I, well, I fucked up. Badly. I'm trapped in the drawing room. But I had this nightmare and... Never mind," Draco explained, realizing he was rambling. "I... I can't stay here."

"So, just sleep in the drawing room, you bloody ferret," Ron complained. "'Mione says it'll die if it's out in the sunlight so, just stay there until morning and it won't get you."

"You don't understand!" Draco whinged. "I _can't_ sleep in the drawing room."

"Why? No, you know what, I really don't care," Ron snapped.

"It's kind of hard sleeping in a room where you spent more hours than you can remember writhing on the floor while Volde – You know who practiced his curses on you!" Draco cried. "I wouldn't even _live_ here if I could get my bloody mother to leave! I can barely sleep in my own room!"

He pulled back from the fire, and tried to remember how to breathe. This was actually the first time he'd even been in the drawing room alone since the death eaters had used the manor as their base of operations. He never went in there alone. There wasn't any reason to. He shook his head, trying to banish the memories. Outside in the hall, he could still hear the Grim pacing. He'd let it have him, if it weren't for the fact that there would be no one to look after his mother other than the house elves. As much as she appeared to have all of her ducks in a row, Draco knew he wasn't the only one who had nightmares. Narcissa wouldn't even leave the manor, unless she absolutely had to.

"Are you having some sort of panic attack? Are you alright? I still hate you, but you better not die on my watch," Ron asked, actually sounding concerned.

"Piss off Weasley," Draco snapped, almost sobbing and ended the fire-call. He'd never live that little rant down, he knew that. It didn't matter. If the Grim didn't kill him, his own demons would. Still, the shame of mentioning those things to Weasley was physically painful. He shuffled over to one of the plush armchairs next to the fireplace and crawled into a fetal position. What time was it? How many hours until dawn? The old grandfather clock on the other side of the room had stopped working some time ago. He could still see stars through the windows. He wished he could stop shaking.

"Draco?" That was Hermione's voice. He was glad she was safe. She was downright scary when she wanted to be, but even Draco knew she was their best hope for finding a solution for the mess they'd made.

"Leave me alone," He snarled without moving from his pitiful position in the chair.

"Ron says it has you trapped? What's keeping it out? Something physical or part of the wards?" She asked, ignoring him.

"I don't know. I didn't get a chance to work on the wards here. It's something left behind from when... I don't know it's some kind of defensive dark magic. It has... _His_ signature," Draco answered, trying to focus. His mind screamed not to think of him, anything but that.

"Stay with me Draco, what does it actually _do_?" Hermione pressed.

"I don't know. It repelled it, sent it flying backwards when it tried to get in. It's still out there. I can hear it pacing," Draco told her. "...What time is it?"

"A few minutes past eleven."

"Oh fuck, no!" Draco whinged.

"Why? What is it?"

"...I can't stay in here that long. I'll kill myself. I _hate_ this room," Draco said miserably.

"Draco, listen to me. It's just a room. What happened in there was terrible, yes, but Voldemort is dead and there's nothing in there that can hurt you right now, " Hermione told him.

"You don't understand!" He cried. "I watched his snake eat a little muggleborn girl alive just because she wasn't a pure-blood – on my table – and all I could do was _watch._ And I'll have you know you aren't the only one my aunt has practiced her unforgivables on in here, and my father – he never once tried to save me. I... I never come in here. _Never_. I'd rather let that thing have me than stay in here!"

The silence that followed was suffocating. When Hermione replied what felt like a century later, he expected her to tell him to grow a pair. "It knows, somehow. That must be why it cornered you there. It's not really a Grim. This is going to sound positively mental, but it's a ghost of one. Someone is controlling it, someone who might be be familiar without the layout of your manor if they were a death eater. There's nothing I can do to right now; you have to just wait it out." ...Was what she actually said.

"That's hardly reassuring. How do you summon a ghost of a Grim? And more importantly, how do you kill the bloody thing?" Draco asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

"I have no idea, not yet. It's some pretty dark stuff, so it goes without saying that the Ministry doesn't have much on it. The summoning bit isn't hard to figure out. Obviously I'm lacking a proper understanding of the magic at work without a solid resource, but your blood is sort of an anchor for it. It can trace you, probably anywhere since it's a ghost and physical boundaries don't apply to it. I'm not sure yet on how to break that link yet, but I doubt the Grim itself can actually be killed. It can definitely be temporarily dematerialized. Harry cursed the absolute shit out of the one after him until it literally got blown to bits, but it showed up again after a couple hours," Hermione explained, confident as always. "Whatever you do, don't leave that room and don't pick a fight with it. Harry did it from his upstairs window where it couldn't get at him to retaliate."

"So, the trick to making it out of this alive is tracking down the bastard controlling it?" Draco supplied, trying to keep his focus on Hermione's face in the fireplace. It was too quiet, too cold and the sound of the Grim pacing was fraying the last bit of his nerves. How was going to make it until the morning?

"Probably," Hermione replied. "We definitely need to catch him, but banishing that thing is a priority. That will probably be easier than tracking someone, when we have no leads on their identity."

A gust of wind blew outside the window, sounding like a wolf howling in the distance. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin and spun around. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest. Out in the hall, he heard the Grim pawing at the wall beside the door. He backed away on reflex and almost fell over one of the chairs near the long table. The smooth wood pressed into his back, and suddenly he didn't care about the stupid Grim anymore. He was backed up against the table, with nowhere left to run, while the tip of Voldemort's wand hovered a few inches away from his chest – right over his heart. A handful of death eaters stood around, blocking any hope at escaping. His father was among them, watching from the shadows. Always watching, but never intervening. At least his mother never had to see this, but he _hated_ Lucius for refusing to protect him.

"You know that I do not tolerate failure," Voldemort said, the words chilling Draco to the bone. "So imagine my surprise when I found out that not only did you botch killing those Aurors, but you hexed one of our own to save them!"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "I hit the wrong target; he got in the way."

"Liar," Voldemort whispered. " _Crucio!"_

The world exploded into white-hot pain. Draco wasn't sure when he wound up on the floor, but it felt like Voldemort had literally shoved his pale, boney hand inside of his chest and was trying to rip his heart out. And it just wouldn't _stop_! He could see Lucius watching, his face unreadable.

"Help..." Draco pleaded, and Lucius turned away.

The floor was cold, but not as cold as Voldemort's fingers as they wrapped around his neck.

"Never lie to me again," He hissed, his breath hot on Draco's face.

"Draco?" That was a woman's voice, not his mother's but familiar nonetheless. "Draco!" They called again, and it registered in his mind that it was Granger's voice. Not Granger, Weasley. He shut his eyes and shook his head as reality came crashing back down around him.

He was laying on the floor, staring at the candlelight dancing across the many crystals of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling above him. He still feel the pain of the curse as he moved. Shaking like a leaf, he sat up and pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm here," He ground out.

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"No..." He wheezed and curled up in a ball on the floor by the fire. "Yes. I don't know anymore."

"What happened?" Hermione repeated.

"Nothing. Being in here messes with my head. It's like it's all happening again," Draco tried to explain. "I know it's not real, but... Maybe it is."

"Listen to me Draco, breathe. Try to stay calm. I'm going to take a few minutes to see if I can properly connect your floo to Harry's house without disturbing your wards," Hermione suggested.

"Can't you just connect it to the ministry?" He whinged. He couldn't deal with Potter in this state. He'd never live down the shame. Sure, Ron and Hermione would tell him all about this debacle, but he wouldn't have to _see_ it. He was a fully trained Auror, not a seventeen year old. This was beneath him, and he knew it. He was being a fucking coward. Yet... Why couldn't he just let go?

"Some of the higher ups in the Auror department have already been asking questions. Ron managed to get them to believe we're working on one of his cases. There won't be any keeping this quiet if you show up here," Hermione explained. "Don't do anything rash. It's going to be okay." She said reassuringly, and her face vanished from the hearth.

Now he had lost his shit in front of Hermione, too. ...When had he started calling her by her first name? When had she started calling him by his? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He hid his face in his hands and sulked, momentarily too disgusted with himself to even try to rationalize it. He wished he could at least change into clean clothes before having to deal with Potter. He glanced at the doors. The grim dragged its claws down the wall outside.

"Fuck you," He said to the Grim.

It barked in response, and it almost sounded like it was laughing at him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** Sorry for disappearing. Life is rough right now, but I haven't given up on any of my work. This chapter is kind of sort, but I have big things planned for this story.

 **Warnings:** Suicidal thoughts. Nothing graphic.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: The Muggle Theory**

* * *

"So, do you want to talk about it, or -"

"Piss off, Potter."

Draco was curled up in the plush armchair again, clutching the heavy cast iron fireplace poker in his shaking hands. If it was really a ghost, the iron would repel it, according to Hermione who had just informed him that he would be stuck there for the night. Bloody unfortunate, that. Potter, of course, was being more of an annoyance than anything so she had sent him to sit and talk with Draco. Or, so Harry had told him. Obviously, there wasn't much reason to doubt it. He imagined Potter was as useful with tedious research as a troll would be in a banquet hall.

"I still can't believe that shit actually worked."

Could he be any more fucking obnoxious? Draco sincerely doubted it. "I don't care anymore."

"I think you do."

"It doesn't mean I want to talk to about it," Draco hissed and turned his back to the fireplace. Did Potter really have _nothing_ to contribute to a possible solution?

"So, what _do_ you want to talk about?" Harry whinged. "Apparently I'm on suicide watch here, which is asinine, so at least try to make this a little easier for me."

 _Suicide watch, really?_ Well, to be fair, he couldn't blame them. The past few years had been difficult, to say the least. Narcissa barely spoke to him. He didn't really have any friends to speak of after the fallout from the war, aside from Blaise who still owled him sometimes. Making ends meet had been nearly impossible considering his reputation, and the hoops he'd had to jump through to find proper employment. Sure, the ministry had let them keep the manor after the trials, but they'd seized all but a tenth of the Malfoy family's vault at Gringotts. So, yes, there had been more than a few times that Draco had lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he was even living for – a question he still couldn't fathom the answer to. Never mind any of that, though. After spilling his guts out to Hermione, of course she was worried that he might do something dumb out of desperation. The thought _had_ crossed his mind. What did he really have? Nothing. He was pretty sure the only thing that truly loved him was his elderly eagle owl that was now too old to deliver letters. And, of course, Narcissa – who only ever expressed affection in the form of scolding him.

Harry sighed dramatically, breaking the stifling silence. "So, I'm gay."

Draco groaned and dragged his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "Fuck's sake Potter." He contemplated shoving the iron poker in the hearth, right into Potter's stupid face. "I said I don't care anymore."

"No, listen, you were right. I really am gay."

"Ugh. I was just taking the piss out of you when I said that," Draco whined. "I. Don't. Care."

"Not at all?"

"No," Draco replied burying his face into the arm of his chair. "Why would I? Why would it concern me if the twat who lived likes it it up the bum?" Would the idiocy ever end? He almost wished the stupid Grim was chasing him again. Better that than the image of Potter going to town on some random bloke's cock in the ministry's third floor lavatory, that sprang unbidden to his mind.

"Thanks for that – not caring, I mean," Harry mumbled. "Things haven't been the same with Ron and Hermione since I told them."

"Whatever. I still hope that Grim eats you or something. This whole mess is absolutely, one hundred percent your fucking fault," Draco drawled, sounding a bit more like himself.

"You already said that. And yeah, I already admitted that."

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco snapped. "I'm not going to off myself."

"Are you sure? I don't min-"

"Go. Away."

Harry's face vanished from the hearth leaving Draco in silence. He yawned, and absently picked at his sweaty dress shirt. He hung up the iron poker and glanced at the doors. As if the Grim could sense his gaze, it let out a growl and dragged its claws down the wall beside the doors. Draco rolled his eyes. If nothing else, Potter had pissed him off enough to distract him. Deciding he'd had enough for one night, Draco opened the doors of an ornate cabinet in the corner that he knew was full of liquor. Thoughtlessly, he grabbed a bottle of firewhisky and plopped down in the armchair by the fireplace. Outside, the Grim raked the walls with its claws again.

"Well, you don't have to be a little bitch about it," He said to the Grim and popped the cork out of the amber bottle.

* * *

It was the sound his mother screaming that woke Draco from a dead sleep. He was still in the chair, with empty firewhisky bottles surrounding him. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he got to his feet, the whole room spinning as he ran for the doors. When he threw them open, Narcissa was standing in the hall staring at the walls with her hand covering her mouth. One of the house elves was next to her, holding the tray with her morning tea in shaking hands. Draco followed her gaze, to see that the walls beside the doors were torn to splinters – some of their ancestor's portraits, too. Her eyes met his, and she threw her arms around him.

"Draco, I'm sorry I didn't believe you!" She cried, and shooed the house elf away. " But how did it get in and why didn't I hear anything?"

"I don't know, but the wards here are from... Well, you know. Somehow that kept it out of here. I'm going to stay at the ministry until I sort this out," Draco explained, amazed at his ability to form a proper sentence. "It wants me; you'll be safe if I'm not here." He didn't wait for a reply as he turned his back and headed to the north wing for a bath and clean clothes.

Draco spent a lot more time in the bath than he wanted to admit, but he was sure he still smelled like sweat and stale firewhisky when he finally dragged himself out. He didn't dare eat, he could still taste the burning from the alcohol at the back of his throat, and he was relatively sure he'd vomit if he opened his mouth, never mind attempting to put something in it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd drank that much, not since the night after the trials, at least. He tried not to think as he stuffed everything he thought he might need into a suitcase – a few changes of clothes, pajamas, his wand and a pair of slippers. He slammed it shut, and left the manor grounds to apparate to the ministry. He couldn't talk to his mother right at the moment. Maybe she believed him about the Grim now, but she'd still admonish him for being hungover and at least still halfway drunk.

Potter was in his office when he got there, and he didn't look to have had much better of a night. His hair was a mess, even more so than usual, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Draco was sure he'd worn the same rumpled muggle clothes two days in a row, too.

"Morning, Potter," Draco mumbled and plopped down on the couch next to princess with all the grace of a drunk troll.

"Morning, Malfoy," Harry replied with equal lack of enthusiasm. "So, if you're ready let's head to my place. I haven't slept since this whole thing started."

Draco only shrugged in reply and let Harry lead him back to the ministry's entrance – the only place they could apparate in and out of. Alone in the elevator, Draco yawned and very narrowly avoided emptying the contents of stomach all over Potter's shoes. Well, granted he'd eaten nothing but a blueberry scone the day before he doubted it'd be anything but dry heaves. Still, not pleasant.

"...Are you hungover?"

"Shut up, Potter."

And, as if by a blessing from heaven itself, Potter did shut up and led the way in silence. They apparated to a boring street in muggle London, and Draco frowned as he stared at the nondescript apartment buildings across the way from them. What a filthy neighborhood. Had his mother's family really lived in such a miserable place? He was distracted from his thoughts by Harry shoving a piece of folded parchment into his hand. Curiously, he opened it and read the note in Harry's handwriting that, like everything about him, was horribly untidy. Number 12 Grimmauld place, it read. Oh, right, The Fidelius charm, Draco recalled as he watched the entrance to the Black's old home appear before his eyes. Wordlessly, he incinerated the scrap of parchment and followed Harry inside. ...And wondered how he actually managed to live there. Draco wasn't sure what he was expecting, but what he saw certainly wasn't it. It had the same feel as his manor – dreary, dimly lit and full of paintings of the Black family. Cautiously, Draco prodded a hideous umbrella stand made out of a troll leg with his foot. Potter hadn't really touched the place, it seemed. Harry steered him toward the second floor bedrooms – the one that used to belong to Sirius Black, he said.

"Well, this is lovely." Draco tossed his suitcase on top of the worn dark wood dresser beneath the only window in the small room, and threw himself face down onto the bed. Everything was done up in Gryffindor red with gold accents, and it looked like it hadn't been disturbed in decades. The air smelled faintly of dust and old paper. Only the bedding and curtains seemed to be new. How Potter actually lived in this place, he couldn't imagine. It just... Didn't suit him. Oddly, it worried Draco a bit. It wasn't in his nature to give half of a rat's arse about him, but something about the whole situation seemed horribly wrong.

Depression, Draco realized. He knew Potter didn't care about much other than work, and he stayed at the ministry almost all day and night doing God only knew what. Draco had assumed Potter was simply trying too hard to be a perfect little Gryffindor. Now, well, it takes one to know one. And if Draco knew anything, it was the feeling of utter hopeless that could only be staved off by drowning himself in menial tasks until he passed out from exhaustion. ...otherwise he might be leftalone with his thoughts. That was dangerous, and better off avoided at all costs. What he didn't understand was why, despite assuring Potter of the exact opposite, he cared.

"It's decided," He said, poking his finger at a portrait on the wall featuring a woman who bore a striking resemblance to his mother, minus the white streaks in her hair. "I've officially gone barmy."

"That's nice, dear," The woman in the portrait said and yawned. "Mind the doxies in the closet, they like to steal socks."

"Urgh, seriously?"

Draco decided to explore the place a bit. Potter could kiss his arse about him being nosy. Really, he just wanted to sleep, but he knew sleep wouldn't come without nightmares. How had Hermione and the Weasel not done anything to make this place more welcoming? Obviously, as Potter's dearest friends, they must have spent time here. Or not? How much had things changed for them since finding out about Potter's preference for men? Again, Draco had no idea why it mattered to him. Curiously, he reached out to pull back an odd black curtain covering something in the foyer.

"No!" Potter whispered frantically and snatched his hand away as he nearly ran out of the next room. "Don't touch that," He added even more quietly.

"Why are we whispering?" Draco hissed under his breath.

"There's a painting there that does nothing but scream unless I block it off. If you're too loud you'll wake her up," He explained, trying to usher Draco into the huge kitchen/dining room.

"Oh come on," Draco whinged and threw the curtain back. Harry nearly sobbed and covered his ears.

The portrait of Walburga Black came to life out of a dead slumber, and Draco would have expected her to literally burst through the canvas if she could. "Filthy blood traitors! FILTH! Defiling my-"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Draco shouted over her and cast a wandless silencing charm on the portrait. The sight of the miserable old bat screaming silent obscenities would have been comical if Draco didn't hate her so much.

"How did that work?" Harry asked incredulously, prodding the canvas with his wand. "Nothing I tried ever made it stop. So, if you know some way to get it unstuck from the wall..."

"You, my dearest great aunt, were an absolute wank stain. I actually laughed when my father told me you died. He smacked me with his cane for it, but oh I still laughed," Draco said to the portrait, ignoring Harry. "Potter, this entire place needs to be burnt to the ground," he added turning back to him.

"Yeah, sorry. I don't stay here much. I usually crash at Ron's parents' place," He said sheepishly and threw the curtain back in front of Walburga's portrait. "It just... I thought you would... Never mind."

"She called me some rather unmentionable things, and told my mother that I was a disgrace to my pure-blood heritage, and would never amount to anything. I was four years old, and I still remember it," Draco explained. "Thank mercy she died when I was five. She was right about one thing, though: I couldn't be any gayer."

"So, uh, coffee?"

"No," Draco grumbled. "I think I'm going to sleep."

Walburga's portrait had successfully dampened what little desire Draco had to explore Grimmauld place. Instead, he laid face-down in bed wishing he could just die. Being trapped in there was bad enough, never mind only having Potter for company. They'd better figure this mess out, and soon. Then, he'd manage to survive the rest of this bloody internship, and hopefully never have to speak to Potter again. He decided that he was going to sleep, then he would go back to the ministry to help Hermione research. The thing only came after him at night, as far as he knew. He had to be more use than the Weasel. It took about twenty minutes of rolling around in the bed, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, and cursing pointlessly at the portrait on the wall before Draco gave up on sleep. He got up, feeling utterly defeated, and found his way back to the kitchen.

Potter was sitting there, staring into a cup of coffee as if it held the meaning of life lurking in its depths. He completely ignored Draco as he made himself a cup of tea and filled a plate with biscuits. The silence was even more stifling than Sirius' old room. Finally, he snapped.

"Fine. You win, Potter. Let's talk about it."

"So, Hermione said we should stay here, but we're not going to find anything out hiding here. It only comes out at night, so we should be fine," Harry replied, finally looking up. "The ministry's off limits, though. If Kingsley gets a whiff of this, they'll pull my Auror license for sure. That might not be that bad, though."

"What do you mean that wouldn't be bad?" Draco asked, frowning. "Has the almighty slayer of the Dark Lord, savior of the wizarding world, decided that he doesn't like fighting evil?"

"Actually, yes. I never wanted to be an Auror. I only did it because it was what was expected of me at the time, and I was too confused and lost to think about what I really wanted," Harry explained. "Fuck, Malfoy, I'm not even _good_ at it. I'm just lucky, and some day all the shit I've miraculously avoided being killed by is going to catch up with me."

"I'm not going to argue with any of that, but I also don't care about your problems. How are we going to fix this?" Draco drawled, dipping a biscuit in his tea.

"Well, I have a theory about that. You aren't going to like it."

"Probably not, because your theories so far are what got us in this mess in the first place. But, do Enlighten me, fearless leader." Draco considered telling Potter his biscuits were stale, but he ate it anyway. When was the last time he'd eaten anything? He was bloody starving.

"Right, well. I was thinking -"

"Merlin's arse, the world is going to end," Draco interjected, rolling his eyes. He wondered if it was possible to roll his eyes so hard that they would permanently become lodged in the back of his skull.

"Shut up, Malfoy. Anyway, all throughout history Muggles believed in magic rituals just like this. Even their modern religious practices are full of this sort of stuff. Maybe there really is some magic to it, the ritual itself I mean. Grims and other magic creatures are real things, that can be seen by muggles. What if they found a way to control or summon them using a ritual, instead of magic connected to their body, or soul – whatever. Maybe muggles can do magic too, just not the way we do. Like, it's not a part of them but what if they can manipulate items that are already magical? It would be unpredictable, and probably wouldn't actually work half the time, but I think it could be possible with the rights tools and circumstances," Harry explained, draining the rest of his coffee in one gulp. "Muggles don't believe in magic, but they're really superstitious about things that are definitely magical in origin. Unpredictable outcomes from random rituals, combined with a society that scorns that kind of thing could explain that."

"Shit," Draco said, eyes wide. He'd never thought of that. And why not? It _was_ possible. After all, a cursed object would screw with a muggle the same as it would a wizard. And, technically, a muggle could brew a magic potion without casting a single spell. All it required was knowledge, the right cauldron, ingredients, and environmental controls. Some of the best potions masters were actually squibs. And, if Potter was right, it would explain why they'd both not detected anything odd about the Kirin statue. They wouldn't have known to look for it, or how to. "All right, it's a viable theory. But how do we move forward with that?"

"Well, there's plenty of muggles obsessed with magic and supernatural things. I was thinking we could try going to a muggle library. I know they have books about this stuff. My aunt had some, though she kept them well-hidden and would have admitted it over her dead body," Harry suggested. "Did you ever buy muggle clothes?"

Draco glared daggers at him. No, not Potters pants again. _Anything_ but that. "When the fuck was I supposed to have time for that?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** Someone needs to give Draco a hug.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: An Unwelcome Revelation**

* * *

Draco was sure of two things. One: Potter was actually enjoying this, and two: he knew literally nothing about muggles. It felt like he'd walked into a whole new world when Potter had practically dragged him through the doors of a small tea shop in London. They sat in the corner near the large front window, Draco staring wide-eyed at a TV screen displaying the news while Harry flipped through a newspaper.

"It's weird that they don't move here, but they do on that," Draco said, looking at the TV. "How does it - Hey, wait, Listen to this!"

Harry lowered the paper to watch the news. A plump female reporter was giving a live report from outside of a run-down apartment building. Behind her there was yellow caution tape across the doors, and a pair of bobbies carrying out what was obviously a dead body in a large black plastic bag.

"The residents are in shock following the events this morning. It's normally a quiet neighborhood, but there are four people dead following strange reports of an animal attack," The reporter explains, gesturing toward the wall near the doors where the camera zooms in on several deep gouges from something's claws.

"That looks like the manor walls," Draco commented, his face pale. "It destroyed them. My mother almost had a coronary when she saw them this morning."

On the screen a hysterical woman explained, between sobs, that her son had been screaming some nonsense about a large black dog chasing him before he threw himself off the roof of the building to escape it. The other three dead had been his girlfriend, sister and younger brother. The other two siblings looked to have been gored by a large animal, and the girlfriend died from a head injury after falling down the stairs while running from an unseen pursuer.

"Well, shit." Harry griped his newspaper so hard it tore.

Draco sipped his tea, not caring that it was so hot it scolded his mouth. "What now? This happened in broad daylight, Potter. With witnesses, and none of them actually saw the thing other than a bunch of teenagers that are all dead now."

"I don't know. Library, now. ...Before sunset."

"I don't think that matters! It was just trying to make us think it did!" Draco hissed, as the waitress reappeared and put a small plate of biscuits and scones in front of them.

As if on cue, an absolutely hellish sound filled the cafe - the horrid screeching of a certain angry canine's claws dragging themselves down the glass of the large glass window Draco and Harry were sitting at. On pure reflex, Draco managed to dive from his chair and shove the poor muggle waitress out of the way just as the glass shattered under the pressure with a deafening popping sound. Harry wasn't quite as lucky, and bore several cuts as he shook shards of glass out of his clothes.

" _Oh my God_ , Draco where is it?! Fuck that hurts!" Harry gasped, futilely trying to wipe blood off his shirt.

"I don't know, I can't see anything!" He replied, offering the sobbing waitress a napkin off the table near them. He shoved the whole wad of the muggle money Potter had given him into her hand and dragged him out of the cafe. Harry staggered behind him as they finally made it into an empty alley. Harry barely had a chance to protest as Draco grabbed his arm and apparated them both to the spot across the street from Grimmauld place. The Grim was on them in an instant, but Draco hexed the absolute shit out of it with a flick of his wrist and bodily shoved Harry through the door of the house. He managed to hold it off long enough to get himself in and seal the door. Panting for breath, Draco plopped down on his arse and leaned against the closed door. They could hear it howling outside in rage, but unlike at the manor it couldn't tell where they were to claw at the walls.

"How did you learn wandless magic like that? That was fucking amazing!" Potter commented.

"You're bleeding all over the carpet, and _that_ is what you ask?" Draco groans. "We need to get you cleaned up, then we need to fire call Grang – Hermione."

"I'm fine"

"You are _not_ fine. You should be at the hospital but I doubt St. Mungo's can keep that thing out, or I would have apparated us there," Draco said, and forced Harry into a chair in the kitchen. "Take your shirt off, Potter," he barked while rifling through the cabinets for a clean towel. If the panic coursing through him was obvious in his tone, Potter thankfully didn't comment.

Harry stared at him with a blank expression, and pulled his blood-soaked t-shirt off over his head. "Somehow I never imagined you telling me to take my clothes off."

"Don't get used to it," Draco growled and threw a couple of clean white towels on the table with more force than necessary. Harry only smirked and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands.

"Oh, no. This is much worse."

"...What?"

"I thought you'd gotten cut by the glass, but..." Draco very carefully examined four long, jagged gashes that spread from Harry's left shoulder all the way to his right hip.

"Are you saying that fucking thing got me? I can't be that slow."

"These are definitely claw marks, and they're pretty deep, but I don't think there's any damage to anything except your skin. There are some bits of glass in it, though. I'll have to pick that out and I should be able to heal it," Draco explained sourly. "Try to hold still. This going to hurt a bit. Honestly, I'm sort of amazed you're still conscious. Your pain tolerance is disgusting."

"Oh, I get it. You just want to torture me," Potter complained.

"Shut it," Draco grumbled and began removing that bits of glass as gently as he could, considering he only had some varied kitchen utensils as tools. Potter didn't complain, other than flinching and cursing a few times when Draco had to dig a large piece of glass out of the gash nearest to his hip. Healing it wasn't too hard; Draco had always been pretty decent at healing spells, but it did drain most of what energy he had left. Cautiously, Draco prodded the newly mended skin to make sure he'd done it properly. It would scar, horrifically, but it wouldn't kill him. Draco hadn't realized he'd been absolutely terrified of the idea of Harry Fucking Potter dying, until the wave of relief hit him, knowing the moron would be perfectly safe.

"Sorry, Potty. Can't do anything about the scars, but at least you aren't bleeding out on that ugly carpet," Draco drawled, and flopped into the chair next to Harry. "It'll still be a little sore for a couple days, but it'll be fine."

Harry regarded him uncertainly, and the bloody towel in his hands. "Where did you learn that? You don't strike me as the type of person to be much use at magic that helps others. And, you didn't use a wand."

"It's not important."

"I want to know!"

Draco sighed heavily, and furiously washed the blood off his hands in the sink after he tossed the towel in the bin. "I taught myself," He said, finally. "My wand... It's never been right since you disarmed me that day at the manor – even after you returned it. I thought about getting a new one, but I doubt anyone would sell me one. You know, considering who I am. If you meant the healing magic specifically, Snape taught me that in the sixth year. For some reason he thought it would be useful. He wasn't wrong, but I mostly used it to patch up death eaters because they were shit at anything other than murdering things, and Voldemort – that _a_ _r_ _s_ _e_ _hole_ knew I could do it."

"So... Um... Thanks. You kind of saved my life."

"Whatever, Potter. Take a bath. You're disgusting. I'm going to firecall Hermione," Draco said wearily and stalked to the fireplace at the other end of the kitchen. He ignored Harry as he got up stiffly and went upstairs. Something had changed. He didn't hate Potter anymore. The revelation hit him like a brick wall, and Draco almost fainted as he tried to remember how to breathe. He hadn't cared about anything once he saw Potter covered in blood. He didn't even know he managed to hex that bloody furbag as efficiently as he did. Normally he was only good at very basic charms without a wand. The only thing in his mind was that he had to keep Potter safe, and that was very unlike him. Draco was all about self-preservation. He'd never thought of anyone before himself, with the single exception of his mother. What had come over him, and why had his heart lept to his throat when he saw Potter drenched in blood? It was hardly an unfamiliar sight. The Git spent as much time at St. Mungo's as the staff.

"Fuck, I'm too tired for this," He complained to himself, shaking his head and grabbing a handful of floo powder. Instead of firecalling, he stepped into the flames and took the floo to the ministry.

Hermione looked up in surprise when he walked right into her office without knocking, and slammed the door behind him. He didn't wait for an invitation to seat himself in the chair opposite her desk either. Her office was a lot nicer than Potter's, but Draco supposed being the Minister's personal secretary came with perks – a nice office being the least of them.

"Draco what are – What happened? ...Are those Harry's jeans? Is that blood?! You look terrible," She said shrilly and got to her feet in an instant. "Where's Harry?"

"Taking a bath, hopefully. He looks worse than I do," Draco explained dully. "That thing... It _can_ go out in the daylight."

"What happened? Tell me," Hermione demanded, and forced a cup of tea into his hands. Draco decided against asking where she'd conjured it from.

"We went to muggle London. Potter has a theory, but I'll get to that later. We were going to go to a muggle library and do some research of our own, but we stopped in a tea shop on the way for a bite to eat. We were watching some sort of news program, that was talking about it – it _had_ to be it. Four teenage muggles dead. We didn't get a chance to investigate though; it attacked us at the tea shop – broke through the window we were sitting near." Draco took a sip of the tea, nearly spilling it on himself. "I got us back to Grimmauld place, but it's still killing people. Whoever is controlling it has to have other means than that stupid statue."

"My God." Hermione chewed nervously on her thumbnail. "I'm going to have to report this to the Minister, Draco. I don't want to, but it has to be stopped."

"I know," He said quietly. "I was going to do it myself if you didn't. My career isn't worth innocent people dying. Neither is Potter's."

"Were either of you hurt?"

"Potter was, but I took care of it," Draco told her. "God, I'm so fucking _tired._ "

"You took care of it?" She asked, incredulously.

"I know a bit of healing magic."

Draco thanked the powers that be that Hermione didn't question him further. They sat in silence for a moment, before Hermione headed for the door. "I'm going to see Kingsley now, do you want to come?"

"No."

"I won't make you since I know you need a break from all this, though he'll want to question you two later." Hermione almost made it out the door, but Draco interrupted her.

"Hermione."

"Yes, that is my name."

"How long have you known that Potter is gay?"

She snorted, trying to hide a bark of laughter. "Honestly, probably longer than he has. Ron didn't take it well, though. I think most of the reason he even tried to date Ginny was because he was afraid of how Ron would react. Why do you ask?"

"I was curious. Him mentioning it last night was the only thing that annoyed me enough to actually have a conversation with him," Draco replied sheepishly. "I thought he was just being a prat. I told him I don't care, and he thanked me for not caring. It was the stupidest thing. And I'm... Actually worried about that bloody git."

"Me too. All he does is work, and I know he isn't happy as an Auror," Hermione said sagely. "Listen, Draco... Right now, I have to go see Kingsley about this mess. But, if you need someone to talk to, you can come see me. You've been through at least as much as we all have, and while I know I can't say that I understand how it was for you, you don't deserve to feel like you have to go it alone."

"I... Thank you. Sorry, I'm not used to people giving a shit about me." Draco stared at the carpet awkwardly, wondering when he'd managed to smear Potter's blood all over his – Harry's – Jeans.

"Friends?" Hermione asked, holding out her hand. Hesitantly, Draco reached out and shook it. He was reminded painfully of that first time meeting Potter, when he'd refused his friendship. He didn't blame him, not anymore. The people they were then never could have been friends. It was just more proof of how much both the war and growing up had changed them.

"Good. Make sure Harry doesn't do anything stupid. I'll be over to see you when I'm done with Kingsley," Hermione said when Draco didn't reply.

"Oh, wait -" Draco said, walking with her as he explained Potter's muggle magic theory.

Hermione stopped in her tracks and tapped her fingers on their case file as she processed the information. "I think he's right. The attacks are too random for a wizard to be doing this, and maybe you two getting involved was just an accident. Only, wasn't it the killing curse that offed that bloke you two found in the mansion?"

"It was. I know it sounds stupid, but do you how the air smells after a lightening strike, during a storm? That's what it's like. At least, I've seen it used enough to know it by the smell," Draco told her, hating the way his insides squirmed whenever he had to think back to those times. "I'm going to make sure that fucking idiot didn't drown himself in the tub."

"Hey, take Princess with you!"

* * *

A few hours later, after a decent nap, Draco found himself in the upstairs sitting room with Hermione and Potter. He read the _Prophet,_ feigning disinterest as Hermione demanded to see the scars left behind from Potter's most recent brush with death. Eventually he tore the _Prophet_ to shreds, and went to the window. He could see the Grim pacing outside. He itched to throw something at the fucker, but didn't want to risk it somehow interfering with the Fidelius charm that was the only thing saving their arses at the moment.

"Are you ok, Draco?" Hermione asked, pulling him back to reality. "I didn't realize it was this bad, and I know that healing spells can be very taxing on the wizard casting them. That's why they normally work in teams in a professional setting."

"I'm fine," He lied. Truthfully, he could still feel the strain, and he knew the only thing that would help was a solid night's sleep. He sat on the edge of the couch and held his head in his hands. Princess jumped up and settled down beside him. He ignored her, knowing she'd probably bite him if he touched her. She'd hadn't enjoyed the floo very much, to say the least. "I just need to sleep."

"So," Hermione said quietly. "I have bad news, bad news, and... Bad news."

"Start with the bad news then," Harry mumbled, picking at a seam on the couch.

"Draco, you're expelled from the Auror program – and employment with the ministry indefinitely. It won't be made public, other than a statement that you've resigned," Hermione said, sadly. "I'm sorry, I tried to talk him out of it, but Kingsley would pin this whole mess on you if he could. That was the best I could manage."

"Oh god, I'll talk to him. I'll figure something out. It's not Malfoy's fault!" Harry said fervently.

Draco just shook his head. He could panic later, or make an appeal. It wasn't a total less, not yet. "The rest?"

"Harry... You're suspended with pay for six months. Then, assuming you pass a psychological evaluation and written exam, you can have your position back."

"So, what? We sit back and hope the ministry fixes this? No way." Harry paced the room like a restless caged animal.

"I'm also on suspension," Hermione commented miserably. "For not reporting it immediately."

"What?" Draco stood up, balling his hands into fists. "That git. I'll -"

"No, you won't do anything," Hermione said, and snatched her handbag from the coffee table. "You're going to show me how you did this stupid ritual, then I'm going to do it so I can see the stupid thing so I can properly help you get rid of it. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, but I know the ministry doesn't consider it a priority."

"Their only priority, I'm sure, was getting rid of me." Draco steered Potter back to his chair, as the pacing was driving him insane. "Does he even want to talk with us?"

"Other than to sign your resignation and suspension contracts, no."

"This is such shit!" Harry cursed, and kicked the leg of the coffee table. "And how are you gonna do that ritual, Hermione? It was a bunch of really rare potion ingredients that we couldn't find even if I threw every galleon in my Gringotts vault at the apothecary in Knockturn alley. And I sealed the bloody statue in the cursed items vault at the ministry."

Hermione smirked and dug around in her handbag, before pulling out a very familiar black lacquered box about three times its size – followed by a series of jars taken from the potion ingredient stores in the Auror department. Draco, smiled in spite of himself. He'd wondered more than a few times over the years how Hermione had been sorted into Gryffindor. She was more Slytherin than half the so-called pure-bloods that ran the dungeons back at Hogwarts. Regardless, Draco couldn't help but admire Hermione's spellwork. He wondered what else she could fit in that tiny handbag, probably quite a lot. It had been a long time since he'd thought of her – or any muggleborn – as lesser than a pure-blood, but Hermione really was one of the best of the lot.

"Did you steal that before or after Kingsley suspended you?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes.

"After." Hermione flipped open the lid of the box and inspected the statue. "Don't tell Ron, he thinks I'm in America for some meeting with MACUSA until next week. I know he wants to help, but he'll just get in the way."

"I'm not sure if you're brilliant or insane," Draco said, watching as she continued to dig through the bag, her arm buried up almost to her shoulder.

"She's a bit of both," Harry said, and sat down beside him. "But mostly brilliant."

"You two are getting on well," Hermione noted with a wink, and pulled a small leather pouch out of her bag.

"Yeah, next thing you know we'll be adopting a crup and hiring an interior decorator," Draco drawled, barely able to keep the smirk off his face. He dodged the ugly purple throw pillow that Harry tossed at his head; it hit the wall behind him with a soft thud. "Actually, we _are_ hiring an interior decorator if I have to stay more than another day. This hovel is fucking depressing, Potter."

"Sounds like a muggle reality show," Hermione said with a giggle. "Here, I got a hold of these while I was in the vault, too. If I'm right, we should be able to wear them and it won't be able to see us."

She handed them both small pieces of old bones tied onto leather cords long enough to put over their heads. Draco's looked some sort of toe joint with a chipped claw attached, Harry's was a piece of broken jaw bone, and the one Hermione put over her head was a plain flat piece of a shoulder blade. Uncertainly, Draco examined it, running his fingers across the tip of the claw.

"What are these from?" He asked, giving up and putting it on.

"A Grim, according to label on the box they were in," Hermione said flatly. "Apparently wearing the bones of one will prevent a living Grim from being able to see you, stopping you from dying after seeing one as long as you never take it off. It should make us invisible to this ghost one, too. It can still probably sense us, though. Now, I'm going to go back to my office and do this before I'm officially on suspension. I think it would be best if we don't do it here in case it compromises the Fidelius charm somehow. Tomorrow, we'll all go to a muggle library and do some research on shamanic magic."

Once Hermione left, Harry and Draco sat in silence, listening to the Grim howling outside. Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was tired to the point that wasn't tired anymore. ..If that made any sense. Harry yawned and picked at the leftovers of the strange muggle takeout food Hermione had brought them earlier. Draco had eaten some of it because he was starving, but he wasn't particularly fond of it.

"Get some rest, Potter," Draco muttered and the vanished the food that they both knew they weren't going to finish.

"Yeah." He picked up Princess and tucked her under his arm. "So, do you think we can have a civil conversation without sniping at each other for five minutes?"

"We just did. What do you want?"

"True." Harry fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. Princess swatted him and wriggled herself free. She darted from the room, her tail twitching. "So, about Blaise... Were you -"

"No, stop right there. I am not talking about that. Not with you."

"Okay, let my rephrase that. How did you cope with the aftermath of that? Did anyone treat you differently?" Harry asked.

Draco mumbled a slew of curses under his breath. "No, my mother told me to be discreet in the future and never brought it up again. If anyone treated me any differently, I don't recall. My career as an Auror was doomed from the beginning, but that was the only thing it really affected." Honestly, he wanted to tell Potter how much he wished he'd had someone – anyone that he could trust to talk about it all with to get his thoughts straight, but like hell if he was going to let Potter see how much of a pathetic, broken thing he was. He was sure the git would would just poke fun at him if he opened up about it, anyway. Even if he didn't hate him anymore, Draco wasn't going to count of Potter's feelings toward him being any different. If anyone had a reason to loathe Draco Malfoy, it was Harry fucking Potter. Draco needed to make sure he never forgot that.

"How did it have anything to do with being an Auror?" Potter pressed.

"It didn't," Draco snapped, as if it should have been obvious - which it was. "Part of working for the ministry is avoiding negative press coverage. That doesn't matter for _you_ , but it makes things very difficult for me. I'll always be in my father's shadow, as far as other people care. No one looks at me and sees Draco Malfoy, they see Lucius' spawn. They judge me by his deeds, instead of what I'm trying to accomplish. I was a shit person, there's no arguing that. But I want to change that, I really do."

"What did Weasley do when you told him?" Draco asked, when Harry didn't reply.

"He didn't talk to me for a week. And while he apologized for being a prat, we don't talk much anymore. Ginny's always after him to stop being an arsehole and get over it, but I guess he's angry because he's supposed to be my best friend, but I never told him. Fuck that, I didn't even really know what I wanted back then, other than not dying," Harry replied, looking absolutely miserable.

"Go to bed; this doesn't matter. If you're looking for someone's shoulder to cry on, you should know better than to ask me," Draco said, and Potter left without another word, with an unreadable expression on his face.

He could act like it didn't bother him all he wanted, but deep down Draco knew the same insecurities haunted him. He'd been defiant, saying that he didn't care what anyone thought when the _Prophet_ interviewed him, but it was all a lie. He'd never had any interest in women, and he knew it. The fling with Pansy had been an experiment, really. He thought if he tried it, maybe it'd all fall into place like it was supposed to. ...But he couldn't even bring himself to sleep with her. He'd tried, but it just wasn't right. He'd gotten further with Blaise, but his nerves prevented him from actually enjoying it. Well, that and Blaise's complete lack of patience for Draco's inexperience. Irritably, he threw the pillow that Potter had tossed at him back on the couch with so much force that a cloud of dust erupted from the cushions.

The problem, Draco knew, was that he hated that part of himself. He _hated_ that he couldn't be happy settling down with some pure-blood pretty girl and starting a family. It all came back to his father. He was always such a bloody disappointment once he was old enough to start questioning the direction Lucius shoved him in. All he'd ever wanted was the man's approval, but he never got it. He was never good enough. So, when he finally accepted that he might be gay after the fiasco with Pansy, Draco truly started to despise himself. As a result, he'd been honestly afraid to try to meet anyone new – to try anything else. He was becoming everything that he was taught not to be – everything shameful and wrong. It wasn't an entirely pure-blood thing, either. The wizarding community had always been a bunch of bigoted morons. If the news ever got out that Potter preferred men, it could be the beginning of the bloody apocalypse. Oddly enough, Draco hoped that would never happen. Potter was a twat, but not even he deserved to be exposed to the hatred that would follow.

"I need to sleep," he reminded himself and shambled to his room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** We will be seeing more of Lucius later, and he will be much more in character than he is here. One can assume being in Azkaban screws with your head. ...Not that Lucius is a particularly nice person to begin with, but still.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Grim Origins**

* * *

The muggle library was an even more surreal experience than the tea shop. Draco pretended he would rather light himself on fire than be there, but he was actually fascinated by muggle science. Some of it seemed so advanced, it might as well be magic. He'd been brought up assuming that muggles were stupid and barbaric, but the material in the library taught him the exact opposite. He was supposed to be helping Potter find relevant books in the metaphysical section, but he'd gotten distracted by the medical reference texts in the aisle next to it. He was completely obvious to Hermione watching him with a dumb grin on her face as he flipped through a book about treatments for trauma related injuries - devouring everything he read with interest. Most of it would be obsolete and useless to a proper mediwizard, but some insights – like how the body reacted to, and compensated for trauma were intriguing.

"I'm glad you've found something, but unless that thing gores one of us again we won't need that," Hermione said, pointing in the direction of the next aisle over.

"We won't need that anyway. Why sew a wound shut when you can just heal it?" Draco mumbled and roughly shoved the book back onto the shelf as if it had offended him. Once she'd left, he took it back and shoved it inside the messenger bag he'd brought that was full of various supplies they might need if they found any sort of counter-ritual. Stealing Muggle books from a muggle library... Who had he become and where the hell was Draco Malfoy? He checked his surroundings and pilfered another book about anatomy.

In the next aisle, he set to work properly. Most of it was utter trash. He pulled a few books from the shelves, though. One that was a sort of encyclopedia of local urban myths, another about cleansing your home of evil spirits, and a particularly ridiculous looking history of tribal black magic. Deciding what he had was sufficient, Draco returned to the table where Potter and Hermione were seated.

"Think these will help?" He asked, sitting next to Potter.

"Dunno, this is all rubbish so far," Harry replied, sounding bored out of his wits.

Hermione only grunted in reply, not even looking up from the book she was engrossed in. Draco sighed and flipped open the one about repelling evil spirits. It was garbage, as he realized a few pages in. Maybe some of the methods would work for something significantly less malevolent than their pursuer, but Draco sincerely doubted burning a bunch of sage would actually get rid of it. He snapped the book shut and picked up the one about urban legends. It was even more ridiculous than the first one. Uncertain where to look next, he flipped through the pages, skimming over stories of bottomless lakes and fairies that kidnap children. Something caught his eye, however. Frantically, he flipped through the pages until he saw it again – an illustration of a hellish looking black dog with glowing eyes, wreathed in smoke. He was actually sort of glad the muggle artwork didn't move.

"Black Shuck," He read aloud, and skimmed over the article. "...Is but one of the more famous 'Black Dog' apparitions in British Folklore."

Hermione looked up from her book, eyes wide.

"Wait, I've heard of Black Shuck. Is that the dog ghost that killed those people in a church?" Harry said, curiously. "I remember reading something about that in history class when I was a kid, and still went to muggle school."

"Yes, he's a Black Dog – a type of really nasty ghost that's been around for ages here in England. There's all sorts of them. All of them are supposed death omens, or signs of ill luck," Hermione replied. "Why didn't I think of that? Maybe it's not a Grim at all. I always thought Black Dogs and Grims were the same thing and all nonsense stories, but... maybe they're not."

"Maybe Black Dogs are ghosts of Grims?" Harry suggested.

"It says here that they are exclusively nocturnal and that their steps are silent, but it attacked us in broad daylight and I have definitely heard it pacing in the manor," Draco replied. "What was that about a church, Potter? I had a dream about that bloody thing in a ruined church on my manor grounds."

"Black Shuck haunts Suffolk, I think." Hermione said, tapping her fingers on the table. "Your manor is in Wiltshire. It's probably not the same spirit, but like I said - there's tons of different ones."

"Yeah, there's a whole list of different ones, Black Shuck was just the first on here," Draco confirmed "And... Ugh, that's just savage. According this, it was tradition to bury a black dog alive under the cornerstone of a new church being built, something about it guarding the place from evil – particularly witches and wizards. Their spirit would appear and ring the church bell at midnight, and a death would occur the day afterward. Get this, they were called Church Grims. So a Grim and a Black Dog _are_ probably the same thing. But, if this is accurate, Grims aren't living magical creatures – just vengeful spirits."

"It would also make sense that witches and wizards fear them and don't know the distinction, if their purpose was to keep us away. Muggles weren't always oblivious to us, and with what I've read about magical history, it sounds like we actually went into hiding to escape persecution by them. ...As much as modern wizards would like to say the opposite," Hermione said, thoughtfully.

"You know, I had a dream about that thing with a church, too," Harry commented. "It was a little stone church in the middle of the woods, and... Well, they were burning a witch outside. I thought I'd be safe inside, but it followed me."

"Who was the witch?" Draco asked, and they made uneasy eye contact.

"I thought it looked like Hermione," Harry whispered.

"She did, but it wasn't me," she confirmed. "I had that dream, actually it was a horrific nightmare, last night after I summoned that thing."

"If it helps," Draco suggested, "I know exactly where that church is. I don't know how safe it would be to go there, though. With what I know about dark magic, and assuming that all Grims are actually spirits, these bones aren't doing any good. They'd probably only make us invisible to the specific one whose body they were taken from. This thing is obviously smart. It lured us into a false sense of security, making us think it couldn't attack during the day and it _knew_ that if it cornered me in the drawing room I would lose my shit. ...I just don't think it knew it couldn't get in there. It might just be biding its time again, waiting for us to let our guard down."

"All right, so we know _what_ we're dealing with. Now, we need to figure out how was it summoned, and who it was that did it. Considering we've all had a dream about a church on the Malfoy estate, and it's probably the spirit that was meant to protect that place, we can assume the summoner knows and has a grudge against the Malfoys," Hermione said confidently." I still think the death omen bit is nonsense, but I don't doubt that it could kill someone itself."

"Fair enough, but that doesn't explain the dead man in the mansion, or the random muggles that have been killed," Potter replied.

"It's possible that the spell to summon it was placed on multiple objects to make sure one of them fell into my hands, and given to muggles to cause enough of a stir that Aurors would investigate it. Not too much chaos, though, because they wanted it to be low enough priority that a low-ranking Auror would be sent. Maybe the poor sod that was cursed got in the way or something?" Draco suggested. "Unless it's not about me."

"Not to be a prat, Draco, but I think it might be. No offense, but there are a lot of people out there with a grudge against your family – that's just a reality. Right now, that's not important. We need to banish this thing somehow, and find out why it's attacking random muggles," Potter said, looking out the window. "I say we go to this church, dig the bastard up and take some of it's bones to be safe. If it comes after us again, we can just disapparate back to Grimmauld place."

"Well, that's the problem. We can't apparate there. It's close enough to the manor that it's still inside the wards," Draco said glumly. "We can apparate to the end of the road that leads up the manor or take the floo to the drawing room, but we'd have to hoof it from there. It's at least half a day's walk to get there. ...Actually, if it already existed within the wards before they were put up – buried beneath that church – that's probably why they can't keep it out. The church is at least as old as the manor. The manor has some of the most advanced defensive barriers outside of the ministry and a Fidelius charm that's been in place for hundreds of years. But, if it was already trapped inside..."

"Bollocks," Harry grumbled.

"What if your mother went there?" Hermione suggested. "You said it's left her alone so far."

"No. I am not risking that thing attacking her," Draco replied defensively.

"You know, I probably should have thought of this before, but maybe a patronus could keep it off us. I mean, it's not _that_ different from a dementor. It's evil, made of dark magic, and I don't know about you two, but when it's near me I just feel this sort of dread. It's like a sort of hopelessness, not quite like a dementor where it sucks the joy away, but not that different," Harry suggested.

Draco got up and paced around their table, ignoring the odd looks from the muggles surrounding them. "It's less like dread, and more like acceptance of the inevitable – Like when you're sure you're going to die, and can't escape. You feel cold inside, and _know_ that it's over. ...It was how it felt when I stood in front of Voldemort after I betrayed three death eaters to save the Aurors that were after us, knowing that he knew what I did because I _sucked_ at occlumency."

"Why _didn't_ he kill you?" Harry asked, curiously. Hermione gave him a warning glance, but he ignored it.

"I don't know, Potter. Probably thought my father would kick him out of his house, or didn't want to risk losing his loyalty somehow. Not that my father gave a damn about me anymore at that point. He cursed the living shit out of me, though. It's a wonder I didn't end up drooling in the closed ward like Longbottom's parents when he was done with me. Who knows, that might even have been better than living to remember it," Draco snapped, absently scratching at his arm where the dark mark was – always carefully concealed beneath long sleeves. "Are we done here? I don't think there's anything else we can learn from stupid muggle superstitions."

"Well, stupid muggle superstitions created the Grim. So, I'm assuming that will help us find a weak point. I don't think there's anything here that will help. We'll need to try something more specific. Maybe a local witch coven would know something. You know, the muggles that think they're witches," Hermione suggested.

"Ugh. Can I sit that one out?" Draco moaned, leaning against the table next to Potter's chair. "I might hex them all out of sheer disgust."

"Absolutely not," Hermione said, a little too cheerfully. "But, I think Harry's right about the patronus being able to protect us temporarily. Let's keep that in mind."

Draco stared at the floor and cursed under his breath. "I can't cast that spell."

"Don't be dramatic, Malfoy. You have to have _some_ happy memories," Potter said, rolling his eyes. "...Like that time you got turned into a ferret."

"Shut up, Potter."

"Harry, don't antagonize him. You're being an arsehole."

* * *

It was decided that they would wait until the next day to try and figure out where the muggle nutters hung out. Hermione had returned to the ministry to drop off Harry and Draco's signed contracts acknowledging their 'resignation' and suspension. That left Draco alone with Harry in the the kitchen the following morning. He was reading the _Prophet_ , but not actually comprehending it. Really, he was just blankly staring at the front page. "Malfoy Resigns", it read, with a horrible photo of him that must have been been taken weeks ago, the last time he visited Diagon Alley. Even the Draco in the photo had a look on his face that quite plainly said he's had it with everyone's shit. The article itself wasn't that bad, it just explained that he 'suddenly decided that being an Auror simply wasn't the right career for him'. Of course, there was a line near the end about his 'relations' with Blaise that suggested he isn't entirely of sound mind. Draco finally averted his eyes from the bloody thing and tore it to shreds.

"How bad is it?" Potter asked, stirring his tea.

"Could be worse," Draco conceded and resisted the urge to stab the table with his fork. At least the Grim had left them alone last night. Well, mostly. They could still hear it howling, but there hadn't been any nightmares.

Not that fate ever showed Draco any mercy. Just as he was thinking that it had been nice to get a proper night's sleep, a tawny owl swooped in through the open window – and dropped a bright red envelope on the table in front of Draco, on top of his half-eaten flapjack. It went back out the way it came in, without a moment's hesitation.

"Oh _fuck_ me," Draco groaned and snatched the envelope, about to make a run for the second floor so Potter might not be able to hear Lucius' all too familiar ranting about how much of a disappointment he was. Only, he didn't make it to the kitchen door before it fluttered out of his hands. "Shit! Shit!" He swore trying to snatch it as it flew out of his reach and began smoking at the corners. Potter just watched with mild interest as it burst open, his smirk turning into open-mouth disbelief as the howler started spewing its message.

"DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY, YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE DISGRACE! YOU ARE AN INSULT TO EVERYTHING I TAUGHT YOU, AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOUR ANCESTORS!" Draco covered his ears and tried to hex the damn thing, _anything_ to stop Lucius' disembodied voice from scolding him in the middle of Potter's kitchen. It had no effect, other than singing the table cloth when the hex missed entirely. This was the _last_ thing he needed right now. The look of pity on Potter's face made Draco wish he could literally die.

"IT'S BAD ENOUGH YOU BECAME A BLOODY AUROR, BUT NOW YOUR WORKING WITH POTTER? THE NEXT THING I HEAR WILL BE THAT HE'S SHAGGING YOU LIKE ZABINI! YOU ALWAYS _W_ _ERE_ OBSESSED WITH HIM!" Draco moaned and sat back down, laying his head on the table. Maybe if he stopped looking at it, it would go away.

"YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BEAR THE MALFOY NAME! I SUPPOSE BEING A BLOOD TRAITOR WASN'T ENOUGH, YOU HAD TO BE A QUEER, TOO!" Finally, the howler erupted into flames and left a thin trail of ash on the tablecloth. Wordlessly, and wandlessly, Draco vanished the remains.

"Fuck," Harry mumbled.

Draco got up from the table and grabbed a handful of floo powder. "Malfoy manor, drawing room," He said, as calmly as he could manage. When he'd left the manor the last time, he'd connected a few of the hearths to the floo network to make traveling back and forth easier. It was definitely worth it now when he desperately needed to be out of that kitchen and away from Potter.

"Malfoy, wait -"

He ignored Potter and stepped into the flames, almost stumbling face-first into the manor drawing room in his haste to get the hell away from Grimmauld place. He wasn't sure which was worse, Potter witnessing his bi-weekly howler from hell, or his mother looking at him with raised eyebrows as he nearly fell on his arse when he hopped out of the fireplace, covered in soot. Dejectedly, he took the seat opposite his mother at the table without saying a word.

"I see it hasn't killed you yet," Narcissa said, in an unamused tone. "You didn't even tell me you had left."

"No, it hasn't. But father's howlers might," Draco replied, trying to wipe soot off of his face.

"He's still sending those? I thought he would have calmed down by now," Narcissa replied, sounding bored. "Your father is a product of his upbringing, and isn't likely to change. You should visit him sometime. I know he isn't being rational, but he _does_ love you, Draco – even if he isn't exactly the best at expressing it."

Draco might have shut his mouth if he'd seen Potter climb out of the floo a few moments behind him, but it was too late by the time he'd noticed. "Because THAT'S how you show someone you love them!" Draco cried, kicking the leg of the chair next to him. "You send them howlers, TELLING THEM THAT THEY'RE FILTH! Who the actual fuck even lets prisoners send fucking howlers from Azkaban!?"

"Good morning, Potter," Narcissa said cordially, nodding her head in the direction of the hearth. "Mind your tongue, Draco. I raised you to have tact, not to squawk like an angry pea-hen."

"Oh just fucking kill me. I don't need or want your pity, Potter, so piss off," Draco spat. "Sorry, mother," He added sheepishly.

"Damn it Malfoy, I was worried about you," Harry said, vanishing the trail of soot they'd left on the clean floor with a flick of his wand. "...Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa picked up a small silver bell and rang it. A young-looking female house elf dressed in a flowery purple apron apparated beside her and bowed respectfully. "Sit, Potter. Wingle, bring some more tea, please." The elf nodded and vanished through the open drawing room doors. Harry awkwardly sat beside Draco. It was obvious he hadn't been expecting anyone else to be there.

"So, uh, Hermione heard that, too. She'd just come in the door," Harry said with a wince. "She's off to take care of our plans for today by herself, figured you'd rather not deal with it after that."

"She's afraid I'll do something stupid, then?" Draco grumbled. "You should have gone with her in case it attacks her."

"Yeah, well, we're going to do something else – something stupid," Harry said. "We're going to that church."

"Are you _trying_ to get us killed, imbecile?"

"I have a plan."

"Oh, Potty has a _plan._ "

"Boys, if you are quite done behaving like children, I would like to show you something," Narcissa interjected and rose from her chair. Harry looked to Draco who just shrugged. Hell if he knew what she was on about. "I was going to owl you about it, Draco, but you're here now, so... I found this last night when I decided to finish patching the wards in places we skipped over the other day," Narcissa explained, retrieving a small leather bound journal from inside a cabinet near the fireplace. She handed it to Draco who opened it carefully, as the leather was cracking and the pages were so brittle he was afraid they might turn to dust as he touched them.

"What in – Where did you find this?" Draco asked curiously. The front page was dated 1352, and read 'Property of Lady Spica Malfoy (Nee Abbott)'. "It's practically ancient."

"It would seem," Narcissa said, "That the Malfoys aren't pure-bloods after all. Or, at least, they haven't been since 1363. Which is fascinating, however, it is the last two entries that truly caught my attention. They may be relevant to your current predicament."

Frowning, Draco flipped to the first entry in the journal with Harry looking over his shoulder as he read.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings:** Heavily implied non-con/rape but no graphic descriptions, mentions of suicide and depression. Life for medieval women was pretty shitty – especially for one unwillingly married to a Malfoy, I would imagine. :c

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Spica's Secret**

* * *

May 12, 1352

I despise it here. The manor is a prison. My cage may have gilded bars, but it is no less a cage. As for myself, sometimes I wonder if Nicholas even sees me as a living being. Am I his wife, or am I merely a possession? Perhaps I am simply another relic to be squirreled away and left on display, covered in dust, in these dreary halls. I've decided to write my thoughts. I have little else to do with my time, other than wander the manor grounds where Nicholas permits me to go.

It's been almost two years since the 'plague' took the the village to the north. While I do not condone Nicholas' actions, I will never find it myself to forgive them for the murder of my daughter, and only child. Barely a woman, and my beloved Lyra was put to the flame just before her sixteenth birthday. We always warned her to stay away from the muggles, but a group of men from the village saw her practicing charms in the woods one day. I never saw her again; she did not come home that night. Nicholas and I searched the woods, but did not find her. I saw the Grim, though. Just as the sun rose it howled and bowed its head to me. By the time I heard Lyra's screams, it was too late. The 'Plague' took the whole village shortly after. By the end of the month, they were all dead aside from a family that lived on a farm nearby. I remember watching the flames, visible from the tower at the manor. As Nicholas so graciously 'helped' that family burn the remaining bodies and the rest of the village to the ground. Only the stone church remains.

With Lyra, our only child, gone there is no one to carry on the Malfoy name. I fear what Nicholas will do if I am unable to give him another child. He is not a kind man, and takes what he pleases – in any context. I wish my father were still living, so I could throttle the life out him for marrying me off to this soulless monster.

May 15, 1352

I want to die. I see the Grim often, the one that guards the abandoned ruins of the church. Why won't it take me? Better that than to endure Nicholas' abuse. We must have another child, he says. He cannot let the Malfoy name die with him, he insists – as he takes me whenever he pleases in hopes to conceive a new heir. We had tried without faltering for years after Lyra's birth to have a male child as Nicholas wanted a son – not his brilliant, beautiful daughter. All those years we never conceived a child, so why now does he think we can? One of us must be impotent. I almost hope he would cast me aside in favor of a younger woman who can give him a child. Well, honestly I dare not think of what he would do to me if he were take another wife. No one would miss me; I have not been allowed to leave the estate since the wedding.

Please God, if there _is_ a God. Let me die, but not by his hand. I am so tired of the feel of his hands on me.

May 20, 1352

Nicholas is in Suffolk. He will be there about a week. There's a Grim that's been terrifying the folk there, and he was called in to deal with it. I hope it deals with him. If it doesn't at least I have some time to myself, and nothing to stop me from leaving the manor. I've missed walking in the woods in the morning. It will be nice to watch the sun rise from the meadow near the village. Or, what is left of the village.

May 21, 1352

I met the owner of the farmstead, today. He is a handsome man with a warm smile and blonde hair so pale it's almost the color of snow. He reminds me of my older brother. He lost his wife and two children to the 'plague'. Why did Nicholas do this? The farmstead family had nothing to do with Lyra's death, and they have always been good to us.

His name is Thomas. He lives alone now, and the farm is overgrown. Some cattle roam freely, but he cannot work the land all by himself. He is planning to pack his things and join his brother in Yorkshire. I hope he manages it, before Nicholas decides to bury him as well – despite how respectfully he spoke of his 'benevolent' landlord. Thomas is a kind man, who so far has treated me with respect. It has been so long since I've spoken with anyone but Nicholas. I forgot what it felt like to have a conversation without being belittled or ignored.

May 22, 1352

I met with Thomas again today, after receiving an owl from Nicholas. He will be in Suffolk for a few more days. The Grim is giving him trouble, apparently. I still hope it kills him.

Thomas brought to me to a garden his wife loved before she died. It is beautiful there, and full of all sorts of flowers that are in full bloom. He offered me a simple gold necklace, and asked if I would make the journey to Yorkshire with him. He fell in love with me at first sight, he said. He knows that I live at the Manor, but not that I am the Lord's wife. I no longer wear my wedding band; Nicholas has not even noticed. I threw it in the courtyard pond some time ago after he bedded me against my will for the, well, I have lost count of how many times it has been. I want to go with Thomas, truly I do. However, I know that no matter where I go Nicholas will find me and drag me back here.

May 24, 1352

I saw the Grim again this morning on my way to visit Thomas. It sat in the spot where the village gate once stood and stared at me as I passed. As usual, I ignored it. What does it want with me? Clearly not to kill me, or I would already be dead.

Thomas and I had tea near the river. There is a small waterfall there, and the sound of it is soothing. I wish I could hear it in the manor when I lie down to sleep. I must treasure these moments, for Nicholas will be home soon. I've set up a ward that will alert me when he reaches the estate. I should have enough time to make it back before he does in case I am not there when he returns.

May 25, 1352

Against my better judgment, I have lain with Thomas – with a muggle, and a poor one at that. I want to say that it was out of love, but I know better. It was an act of rebellion, to remind myself that I still am that – myself. That am I still a person, that I can still feel. How long has it been since I felt anything other than hopelessness and contempt? It does not matter. Thomas leaves tomorrow for Yorkshire, everything he owns packed on a small wooden cart pulled by a pair of cattle. And Nicholas, he should be returning any time now.

May 30, 1352

I received a letter from the Suffolk Aurors by owl this morning. The Grim killed Nicholas. Dragged him into the burning wreckage of the church it is buried beneath and held him there as he burned to death. Like our daughter. I feel no grief, only as though a great weight has been lifted. The estate is mine now, and my life my own again. I will not remarry, though perhaps I will adopt a pure-blood child to keep the muggles from claiming the manor when I pass.

June 10, 1352

The Grim visits the manor now. It paces the courtyard at night, and once I swear I saw it sitting in the drawing room warming itself by the fire. 'Tis strange, but I do not think it means me any harm.

June 15, 1352

I have not been feeling very well lately. The Grim stalks my every move, but it does not unnerve me anymore. It sits beside my chair while I knit next the fireplace in the drawing room, like a faithful hound. Have a I taken ill? Is it waiting for me to pass?

June 20, 1352

I have just returned from town. I decided to see a healer about my recent spells of nausea. I am with child. How did I not notice? And whose child? Thomas' or Nicholas'?

February 18, 1353

I have not written in some time. I have spent most of these last nine months either too ill to leave my bed, or in Wiltshire arguing with the Muggle nobles to keep the Malfoy estate in my hands. A woman cannot own land, they tell me. If my child will be a boy, he may claim the inheritance. That much I have managed. And it is a boy. He was born just after midnight, and his name is Orion Cygnus Malfoy. Though, and it is a secret I will take to my grave, he is not Nicholas' child. His eyes are a pale grey, like early morning rain – just like Thomas', and not like the deep brown that Nicholas' were. His hair, too, is blonde – almost white. Mine is the color of copper, and Nicholas' was as black the Grim's fur.

Speaking of the Grim, he sat beside my bed all the time I was labor. I do not think the others can see him, not the midwife or any of the manor staff.

I do not know what the future has in store for this child. Will he be a wizard, like all the generations before me? Or a muggle, with no magic to speak of?

February 20, 1353

Something is wrong. I am feverish and the pain from giving birth has not lessened. I lay here holding my son, and I wonder if I will live to see him grow. The Grim never leaves my side now. In a fit of rage, I shouted at it – asking why it took my daughter's life, because surely it at least was the herald of her passing.

It still does not leave my side.

February 21, 1353

I am coughing up blood. I am dying. I suppose it is fitting that this is how I should die, my life extinguished by the product of my indiscretion. I cannot blame Orion, though. He is a healthy, happy little boy who smiles and giggles as I hold him in my arms. I wish I could be here in this world long enough to see the man he will grow into.

February 22, 1353

I had a dream last night, of the Grim – and of Lyra. She was in the pyre, screaming in pain and terror as the men watched on. The Grim came out of nowhere, and bowled over two of them. The others, knowing it for what it was, ran in terror. The ones who didn't run, it shredded with its claws. It then dragged my dying daughter out of the fire and laid down on the ground beside her, cradling her head with its body. It growled at the village priest who tried to approach with a torch, and the men fell dead on the spot. When Lyra drew her last, shaking breath, it howled. I knew, even in the dream, that it was the howl that I heard on morning that she died. It wasn't a howl of victory, it was a cry of despair. The Grim had protected her. But why? Were they not meant to destroy our kind, to keep muggles 'sacred' places free of us? Or, like many workings of magic that muggles attempt, does it have a will of its own because they cannot control such powers? Grims are meant to hunt the wicked and defend the good, so did it recognize that my daughter was a good soul?

I think it did protect her, when there was no else to hold her as she lay dying. Is that why it's here now, with me? So that I will not have to die alone? I asked it this, and it nodded its head.

February 23, 1353

I woke up coughing this morning. There is blood everywhere. Everywhere. I have not eaten in two days. I am in too much pain to describe. The Grim is laying across the bottom of my bed now, its head resting on my hip. Visible only to me. Is it time, I asked it. It nodded. Just let me finish writing this, I told it. So I shall.

I will hide this journal where no one will find it, at least not while I live. I thought of burning it, but I don't want the truth to be buried with me. Not forever. It is better that Orion never knows the truth. I will kiss his forehead, and tell him goodbye. Then I will sit in my chair in by the fire and close my eyes.

To anyone who may read this after my passing, know that the Grim of the manor church, Darkfoot as I have taken to calling him, is not an evil being. He has been my constant companion during the darkest time of my life, and comforted me when no one else would. I asked him to look after my son, and all of his sons and daughters until the children of Malfoy no longer live on this land, and he nodded his head.

* * *

"That... Is the most depressing thing I have ever seen," Harry commented.

Draco blinked and looked away. He was absolutely _not_ going to cry. "Her life must have been absolutely horrible if the only thing that gave her comfort was that thing," Draco replied. "...Unless the one after us isn't the same?"

"Malfoy, what if it's not the Grim? What if it's actually trying to protect us from something else that we can't see?" Potter suggested. "It's not like we've given it a chance to prove otherwise. It sounds like it respected Spica enough to honor her wishes, like it took some kind of unbreakable vow."

"Well, it's not impossible," Draco thought aloud, tapping his fingers on the table.

"I wonder if that is why Abraxas' patronus was a dog," Narcissa mused. "Lucius has no art for casting one, but he mentioned once that almost all the Malfoys before him had a dog for a patronus - the ones not entirely turned to dark magic, few and far in between as they were."

Potter stared out the window and got up from his chair. "Let's go back to Grimmauld Place."

"Fine, we need to show this to Hermione, I suppose," Draco replied and carefully tucked the journal under his vest. "You never did tell me where you found this, mother."

"Under a loose tile near the back side of the fireplace. It seems as though it was sealed with a concealment charm, but it appears to have lost its power over the years. This was there too," She said and pulled a thin black wooden box from the cabinet. "Spica's wand, I assume." She added, and opened the lid.

"I wonder if..." Draco mumbled to himself and carefully took the wand out and inspected it. It was in perfect shape, and the greenish wood still felt smooth to the touch. The handle that was engraved with a diamond pattern fit his palm perfectly. An intricately carved snake wound around the wand's shaft, its head sitting where Draco's thumb rested. Curiously, he flicked it in the direction of Narcissa's plate of biscuits and cast a nonverbal summoning charm. One of them landed effortlessly in his outstretched hand. It took all of the self control Draco had not to shout for joy like a child. He had gotten good at wandless magic, and still intended to keep improving as it was a useful skill, but being able to confidently cast spells with precision – even a basic summoning charm, had been nearly impossible since losing his wand.

"If you're planning on actually using that, you should probably take it to Ollivander's and let him have a look at it. It's been lying here forever, and even avoided being found by Voldemort. That thing could be cursed to hell and back," Harry suggested. "There's enough time, we could pop over there now if you want."

"Ollivander? After he was tortured half to death in this manor? Are you daft, Potter?"

" _You_ didn't torture him, did you?"

"No – Of course not!"

* * *

Ollivander's shop never changed, not even after the war and having been ransacked by the Death Eaters. It still looked the way it did when Draco bought his first wand – cluttered full of wands and the materials for making them. Strangely, Draco found comfort in that. So much had changed since then, like there was no innocence left in the world. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and an owl was asleep on her perch near the counter where Ollivander was sitting. He was positively ancient now, not that he wasn't when Draco first met him nearly fifteen years ago.

"Good afternoon, Mister Potter and Malfoy," He said. "What brings you here?" He added with a curt nod.

"I've had... trouble with my wand since I was disarmed a few years ago. I've learned a lot of wandless magic in the meantime, but I found this in my manor and it seems to work for me. I just wanted to make sure it would be safe to use," Draco explained, and handed Spica's wand over to Ollivander.

He examined it with obvious interest, mumbling to himself as he did.

"You have trouble with your wand?" Harry asked. Draco pointedly ignored him.

"You've changed a lot as a Person, Malfoy. Sometimes, when a person changes that drastically due to... traumatic events, the wand that had chosen them as they were, will no longer serve them," Ollivander explained. "This one, however, is a priceless artifact. The core is made of thestral heartstrings. It's not a material I've worked with, but it was very popular in the Victorian era, and French wandmakers have used it since ancient times. It's excellent for difficult charm work and sustained healing spells. The wood that it is carved from – greenlox – has been extinct since the late middle ages, and is by one of the most valuable woods for wandmaking in the world."

"If it's so valuable, why'd they let it go extinct?" Harry asked, curiously.

"Greenlox has a unique magical property that absorbs magic from the forces around it and boosts spell power, particularly spells that deal with regenerating living things – like healing spells or making plants grow. That means that when casting healing spells with a greenlox wand, the wizard doesn't experience the fatigue that normally follows. This was very valuable to healers working to combat the Black Plague during the middle ages, and as a resource it was in extremely high demand because almost every wizard had to pitch in to stop it. The only places it grew naturally were the French countryside, and Wiltshire. Your family may even have been the ones to bring it there, Malfoy. Eventually, it was harvested to extinction," Ollivander told him, admiring the wand. "Very few of these wands still exist. I've only once had the honor of seeing one of them in person before."

"Is it safe to use, though?" Draco inquired.

"To use? Boy, this should be in a museum," Ollivander replied, sounding scandalized as he handed the wand back over to Draco. "Though, if you insist, yes it is safe. As long as you care for it properly, by leaving it out in the light of the full moon every month to maintain its ability to absorb magic, it will never fail you."

Back outside in the dwindling daylight, Draco twirled the wand in his hands. "Potter?"

"What?"

"When we get back, you and Hermione are going to teach me how to cast a bloody patronus charm."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes:** Please don't make me beg for reviews, but I would really like to know what you guys think of this!

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Epiphany**

* * *

"I don't understand! Why isn't this working?!" Draco wanted to scream. He'd managed a bit of shimmery mist, but nothing even close to an actual patronus. It wasn't the wand. Spica's wand performed effortlessly for him. Even (possibly better) with non-verbal spells. He flopped down on the couch that he and Potter had pushed back against the wall to give them more room to practice in the upstairs sitting room. Hermione was sitting there reading Spica's journal, and looked up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Her patronus, an otter, was perched on the back of the couch behind her head watching Draco's movements.

"Try a different memory," She suggested. "Something stronger. Can I ask what you're thinking of?"

"Quidditch," Draco asked sheepishly. "The only thing I can think of that actually made me feel happy enough to recall it, was the first time I walked out onto the Quidditch pitch with the Slytherin team. Granted, I did only make the team because my father bought my way into it. I loved flying, though."

"You know, Quidditch was the first thing I thought of when Lupin taught me," Harry replied with a smile. "Think harder, there's got to be something you've accomplished that you were really proud of that your father didn't buy your way into. Something that really means something to you."

Draco paced the room, the absence of the Grim's howling was almost unnerving after reading Spica's journal. It was almost midnight, it was about time for it show up. He thought of vacationing with his parents as a child, but even then it was always a formal affair – never much fun. He always had to watch what he said and be on his toes at all times. His mother popped into his mind, and the way she used to hold him on her lap and read to him when he was very small. Maybe that would work.

"Expecto Patronum!" A slightly less wispy wisp of silver hovered in air before it vanished.

Draco rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

Okay, something more recent maybe. Getting accepted into the Auror program? No, that was just depressing considering he'd been sacked. He intended to appeal, but that wasn't on table at the moment. What then? He glanced around the room for some kind of inspiration. His eyes fell on Hermione, who was biting her thumbnail and obviously fighting back tears reading the journal. An image of her flashed through his mind, extending her hand and asking _him_ of all people to be her friend. That _had_ to work.

"Expecto Patronum!" A misty shape blossomed from the tip of his wand, but nothing recognizable, and it frizzled out of existence in seconds.

Hermione snapped the journal shut. "Well, that was horrid. Harry, go get us something to eat."

"What? We just had pizza," Potter winged.

"All right, go downstairs so I can speak with Draco in private for a few minutes," Hermione quipped. "Really, you are bloody thick sometimes."

"Oh, uh, all right..." He got up, carrying the plates they had used for the pizza and left without any further argument.

Draco eyed Hermione warily and sat down on the couch beside her. "If this about the howler, I don't want to talk about it."

"Too bad," She said cheerfully. "We're talking about the howler."

"My father is a wanker, and I'll never be good enough for him. Both of those things I have made my peace with. Are we done?" Draco picked at the hem of his sleeve, without looking up at her.

"So tell me, if that's true, why aren't you seeing anyone? Or pursuing a career that you would actually enjoy?" Hermione inquired. "You're too critical of yourself, and place too much value on others' opinions. As long as you feel that way, no memory, no matter how strong, is going to make you feel happy."

"All I ever wanted was for him to love me!" Draco snapped. "Sure, he sent me treats everyday when I was at Hogwarts and gave me everything I could have asked for, but he never once told me that he was proud of me. Maybe that's for the better, considering how things turned out, and the person that he became."

"Yeah, but you need to stop hating yourself for not being who he wanted you to be. Think about who _you_ want to be Draco, that's what matters, nothing else," Hermione told him. "You've been given a second chance at life after the war, and we can definitely salvage your career as an Auror if we try, but you need to think about what you _want_ to do with that – not what you _should_ do."

Draco stared hard at the carpet. That was the truth, though. Wasn't it? Was he that easy to see through? He could stop hating himself for not meeting Lucius' expectations, but what about the rest?

"Draco," Hermione said cautiously, like she was speaking to an angry dragon about to rip her head off. "It's okay to be gay."

He glared at her. If looks could kill, she'd have hit the floor. Instead, she met his eyes and patted him on the shoulder comfortingly. Draco didn't reply. What was he going to say? That she was wrong? That it _wasn't_ okay?

"Can we talk about your adventure with the muggle 'witches'?" Draco asked in an absolutely pathetic attempt to distract her.

"We've been over this; it was a waste of time," She answered dryly. "Really, I've been through all this before with Harry, so I'm not even going to try beating around the bush with you. So, let's talk about Blaise."

Draco dropped his face onto the arm of the sofa and groaned.

"Don't be so dramatic," She chastised him. "What happened? Why did you break up?"

"Did you forget that article in the _Prophet_?" Draco drawled disgustedly. "That was a pretty huge breach of trust. Honestly, it was just the last straw. He didn't have much patience, he made me feel like crap about... Things."

"What things?"

Draco sort of wished he could die. "Sex, Hermione."

"Yes, what about it?"

"Oh, for pity's sake. I don't want to talk about it," He growled.

"I know, that's why you _need_ to," She insisted. "I promise nothing you say leaves this room, okay? I want to help you; that's what friends do."

"Fine. Just don't make fun of me," He whinged. "I'd never done it with a girl. I tried with Pansy, but I just _couldn't_. Blaise has been openly gay as long as I've known him, and we've been friends for ages so I trusted him. I was nervous. I didn't know what to do, he didn't have any patience for that, and it intimidated me. He probably thought it was harmless, but he constantly took the piss out of me about it and that really did nothing to help my confidence. I wondered if maybe if it was all a joke to him – look how far Malfoy has fallen, not only a blood-traitor but now... Ugh."

"Okay, so, what you need is someone who understands that and isn't going to be shitty about it," Hermione said flatly. "Easier said than done, yes. But-"

"I don't need anyone," Draco snapped. "Everyone fucks me over eventually, and not in a good way."

"So, how do you feel about Harry?"

Draco finally looked up, and shook his head.

"Have you gone barmy?" He asked incredulously. "Potter hates me. And _us_? _Together_? That's... Not going to happen."

"I didn't ask you how _he_ feels." Hermione tapped her foot impatiently.

"I... Don't hate him anymore. I haven't for a long time, though he still manages to get on every single nerve I have," Draco replied sheepishly. "But it's not like I stay awake at night thinking about him."

"Oh? You 'don't stay awake thinking of him'? That sounded more like a confession of the exact opposite. He doesn't hate you, by the way. He never did," Hermione insisted and got up to look out the window. "Believe it or not, Harry's smart enough to know the difference between what you wanted to do, and what you were forced to."

"Still nothing?" Draco asked, half hoping the Grim would be there.

"Nothing, but you two are more alike than you know. I'm not telling you to shag him, but opening up a bit wouldn't hurt," Hermione suggested. "Trust me, he won't make fun of you. Not when he's terrified to even try anything himself. All he knows is that he has no interest in women, but he doesn't trust anyone enough to find out what he _does_ want."

"Who can blame him for that? He's Harry bloody Potter. Can you even imagine the shitstorm that it would be if what happened to me with Blaise had been him instead?" Draco told her tartly.

"I know, and that's the point. You get that, and I know you won't use it against him. A few years ago you might have. But you aren't that person anymore." Hermione was about the say something else, but the sound of a familiar howling cut her short.

Harry was up the stairs so fast he might as well have apparated. "So, what do you want to do?" He asked, panting.

Draco picked up his wand and looked out the window at the Grim sitting on the sidewalk across the road form them. "I... Think I'm going to try to talk to it. You two stay here, but please do come save my arse if it comes to it, and this is as bad of an idea as I think it is."

Draco closed the door to Grimmauld place behind him, his heart threatening to pound through his chest. This was a monumentally stupid plan, he knew. It _had_ to be the Grim that attacked them. Maybe not; it hadn't really engaged them other than chasing them. Draco hadn't seen anything at all at the tea shop that day. What, then, had the dead muggles seen? To be fair, only the most recent victim specifically mentioned a dog. Unless... Had Spica's lover, Thomas, gone on to make a new family? Were they his descendants? No, that wouldn't matter. Even if they had, they didn't live at the manor. Draco shook his head and stepped out of the bounds of the Fidelius charm with his wand drawn.

The Grim eyed him warily, it's hackles rising as he approached, but it didn't move. He couldn't blame it for being cautious. He had really thrown everything he had at the poor bastard the other day trying to keep Potter safe. And again, if it was bound to his bloodline, why could Potter see it? Could Hermione see it? She hadn't mentioned it.

"Darkfoot?" Draco asked cautiously.

The Grim tilted its head to the side and wagged its tail.

"Was it you that attacked us?"

A pitiful whine and a shake of it's head.

"Is it here now?"

Darkfoot nodded.

"It's invisible?"

Darkfoot gave him a look that quite plainly said, 'only to you'. Draco lowered his wand and approached Darkfoot. Hesitantly, he held his hand out and patted him on the head, surprised that he could feel the Grim's coarse fur. He was a spirit, after all. He didn't have the warmth of a living thing, though. "Sorry I hexed you." Really, though. Petting a Grim? Draco was beginning to wonder just what the hell had happened to everything sane in his life. ...Not that there had ever been much sanity in his life. Nor did he have much time to think about it, Darkfoot growled warningly and clawed at the ground. Draco raised his wand and cast a non-verbal lumos charm.

What was it that was out there? How was he going to fight something he couldn't see. Well, he knew the answer. Darkfoot would have to be his eyes. What powers did Grims have other than predicting someone's death? Draco assumed there must be something. They were made to kill wizards, after all. Strangely, Darkfoot relaxed and wagged his tail.

"Is it gone?"

He shook his head, and pressed his nose against Draco's hand – the one holding his wand that cast a pale light over them.

"It doesn't like light?"

Another nod of his head.

How had it attacked the tea shop, then? Draco held his wand high and squinted through the darkness, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary – aside from the familiar feeling of dread that crept up on him. He decided against waiting to find out, and turned back toward Grimmauld place. Darkfoot watched him go and whined.

"Well, are you just going to sit there? Come on, then." He wagged his tail and followed Draco. On one hand, Draco was worried Potter would kill him for letting a Grim into his house, on the other he doubted he'd even notice. He'd blend into the dreary décor, after all. Once inside the door, however, Darkfoot vanished.

"Did... Did you just let a Grim in my house, Malfoy?" Potter asked, his face pale.

"It's not evil. I promise," Draco replied sheepishly. Caught in the act, apparently.

"I don't think it can go far from the church unless it's near Draco," Hermione chimed in. "I haven't personally seen it at all, even after performing that ritual. Only in that one nightmare. And there was definitely something near me when I went to meet with the muggle 'witches'. I could feel it lurking nearby. Even they mentioned a dark presence shadowing me. One of them, who I personally thought was off her nut, ranted about me being marked for death by some voodoo curse. "

"How come I can see it, then?" Harry asked, frowning. "It just walked in the door. You didn't see it, Hermione?"

She shook her head. "Maybe you're distantly related enough to the Malfoys or something? Weren't the Potters technically pure-bloods before you dad married your mum? I'm pretty sure all pure-bloods are cousins at this point."

"Well, we know three things," Draco said, tucking his wand in his sleeve. "Whatever it is has claws – big ones. It's also invisible to us, but Darkfoot can see it. It doesn't like light, or fire – which doesn't make sense since it attacked us in broad daylight, but Darkfoot's behavior hinted that it shies away from wandlight."

"A gytrash, maybe?" Potter suggested.

"Gytrashes do shy away from wandlight, but they can't go out in the daytime. They also aren't entirely invisible; if they get close enough you can see them. It's something else." Hermione seemed lost in thought as she looked up at the portrait of Walburga Black that was no longer concealed by the shabby black curtain. She was still screaming at them, but thankfully in silence as Draco's charm had held. "I'm going to go home for the night. Maybe Ron's found something out. He owled me this morning to let me know that Kingsley has him on this case."

"Stay safe," Draco told her, and watched as she went into the kitchen to use the floo. "What do you make of this, Potter?"

"Well, it's been a while since I paid Hagrid a visit, and no one knows monsters like he does," Harry replied. "We can do that tomorrow. Let's work on your patronus a little more. It seems like it could be useful. If this thing doesn't like a standard lumos charm, a patronus probably can fuck with it."

"I think I'll sit that one out, visiting Hagrid I mean." Draco led the way back up the stairs, wondering what his patronus would be. ...Assuming he ever managed to properly cast the charm successfully.

"I thought you were over all of that nonsense," Harry complained. "Hagrid is a good friend, and he'll warm up to you as long as you aren't an arsehole to him."

"Really? You think so? After the hippogriff incident?" Draco almost tripped over a loose bit of carpet near the doorway to the second floor sitting room. "Or all the shit my father has given him since, well, forever."

"You aren't your father, Draco."

Draco blinked, and was at a loss for words as Harry flopped down on the couch and yawned. Had Potter just called him by his first name? It had seemed so normal, yet, had that ever happened before?

Draco shook his head and cleared his throat. "Right, so I can't think of any better memories. Ideas?"

"...Maybe you just need to make some new ones," Harry suggested. "Or, think about what makes you happy in general, instead of a specific event."

Draco paced the room as he thought about it. What did happiness even mean to him? He spent most of the time somewhere between mild anxiety, outright panic, and mindless self-loathing. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, wanting to just rip it out. Why was it so hard to to think of something happy? Ok, maybe something abstract would work. He'd admit it over his dead body, but fancy muggle coffee with unusual flavors made him happy – especially from the little cafe on the street near the hidden entrance to St. Mungo's.

"Expecto Patronum!" A faint, vaguely quadrupedal form swirled through the air before fading away.

"Oh! You almost got it that time," Harry said encouragingly. "Still need something better, though."

"...Maybe I _do_ need to make new memories," Draco conceded. "Ones that don't completely suck. I don't know. Show me again, Potter. Hermione makes everything look easy. Maybe if I watch you cast it I'll see something different in the wand movement, or some other stupid minor detail I've overlooked."

"I don't think the wand movement matters," Harry said, and nonetheless picked up his wand from the table beside him. "Expecto Patronum." He said, sounding bored and gave his wand a small flick.

"...I thought your patronus was a stag, Potter," Draco commented tilting his head to the side as he watched as Potter's patronus, an enormous spectral albino python, watched him unblinkingly.

"Uh... It was?" Harry replied, looking completely clueless and trying to mask another emotion: utter horror.

Draco hadn't missed the way his eyes widened as the snake materialized instead of the silver stag that they were both relatively used to seeing. So why a snake, then? Potter could talk to them, Draco knew that. Or, he used to be able to, at any rate. But why would his patronus suddenly change? Was that normal? Draco didn't know. He barely knew if he was pronouncing the incantation correctly, never mind the lore behind the spell. Unless... Hadn't one of the trainee Aurors mentioned something about that. Yes, that was right. A Patronus could change if the caster had reached a turning point in their life, something or someone that had permanently changed them. But a snake?

Draco almost squealed like a little girl. He didn't realize that while he was lost in his thoughts, the snake patronus had wound itself around him, with its head resting on his shoulder. He couldn't actually feel it like Darkfoot, just a sort of comfortable warmth coming from it. "Potter...!"

"I'm not making it do that. They act independently you know, depending on your intent when you cast the spell," He explained, not looking entirely convicted in his words.

"And what _was_ your intention?"

"I don't know! I didn't really think about it, just kind of vaguely that I wanted to help you, maybe?" He answered and non-verbally ended the spell, making the snake shimmer away into nothingness.

For a moment, Draco missed the oddly familiar warmth of it. He shook himself mentally, and looked over to Potter. He was doing an impressive job of looking calm, but Draco knew him well enough to see the thinly veiled panic lurking behind his completely fake half-smile. And since when did he know Potter that well? Since when could he tell that he was on edge by how stiffly he sat, or that his hands shook ever so slightly when he was nervous? ...And why was he nervous? It wasn't like Draco was going to hex him, or something. Honestly, Draco hadn't felt the urge to hex him at all lately – not since their very first day working together, anyway. Well, that _was_ weird.

"I'm going to bed. It's been a long day," Harry said nonchalantly and walked out of the room.

All Draco heard was, 'Oh shit, I need to bail'. He decided it _had_ been a long day and wandered to his own room. He threw himself face down on the bed, and didn't even bother to change out of his clothes. He was vaguely aware of Darkfoot's presence as the Grim appeared and settled down on the floor near the foot of the bed. Why could Potter see him? It didn't make sense. Draco rolled over and stared at the ceiling. What could have happened to make Potter's patronus change? And again, why a snake? Snakes were symbols of everything from a search for balance, to rebirth, healing and transformation – not chaos and spontaneity like Potter. Draco might expect his own patronus to be something similar, but Potter... ...Unless...

"Oh," He whispered. "Oh, _fuck_ no."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes:** The nocturnox isn't canon, it's something I've made up based on a mix of a few mythological creatures.

* * *

 **Chapter 10:** **Attack at the Manor  
**

* * *

Draco felt like he hadn't slept at all. He could almost hear his own words mocking him from that conversation with Hermione the night before: 'It's not like I stay awake at night thinking about him'. Draco wasn't sure when he realized he was absolutely fucked in the head – when he noticed that he _liked_ the way it felt to have Potter's ridiculous snake patronus wrapped around him, or when he understood what it meant for it have transformed from a stag in the first place. He stared down the stairs, feeling like an animal being led to slaughter. There were about a million places he would rather be than sitting in the kitchen with Potter. Darkfoot materialized behind him and gave him a gentle nudge, before disappearing back into the ether. And then, it all got worse. What if the reason Potter could see Darkfoot was because Draco had feelings for him? Feelings he hadn't quite identified, and didn't want to think about, but feelings nonetheless. Draco took a deep breath and descended the stairs.

He was almost relieved to see that the kitchen was empty, but it was short lived as he immediately worried that something bad might happen if Potter was alone. He would have died the other day if Draco hadn't saved his arse. Draco shook his head and willed the thoughts away. There was a note on the table, penned in Potter's untidy scrawl. 'Gone to see Hagrid, back by noon', it said. Draco considered his options, swore venomously under his breath, and slammed the door to number 12 Grimmauld place behind him. He didn't even think much about how hungry he was, he just apparated to Hogsmeade and made straight for Hogwarts.

He hadn't been to Hogwarts since the war. What would have been his remedial eighth year was spent in and out of ministry hearings, and he signed up for Auror training as soon as they expunged his criminal records. It felt more than a little strange and unwelcoming as he stood near the enormous wrought iron gates that led to the Hogwarts grounds. With a sigh, he pushed them open and made his way forward. He stopped to pet a thestral wandering nearby, wishing he had some scraps of meat to offer it. He hadn't known they existed until he saw them roaming on the manor grounds, during the summer after that horrific nightmare on the astronomy tower during his sixth year. His mother had explained what they were, and that they were friendly and liked raw meat. They were probably the only magical creatures he got on with well, except Potter's obnoxious kneazle and Darkfoot, apparently.

The Hogwarts grounds were quiet, and it was more than a little unnerving to see it so empty. It was the summer holidays, though. Draco followed the path to Hagrid's hut, and took a deep breath as he knocked on the door. What was he doing? He was about as welcome there as a nest of doxies in his mother's closet. Potter must have realized that. That was why he went alone. Definitely not because of... Other reasons. Draco wasn't sure what to say when Hagrid opened the door, and eyed him warily. He just sort of stood there with his mouth open. He hadn't really given much thought to what he was going to say when he actually got there. He managed to ask, in a pathetic tone, if Potter was there. Draco was relatively sure Potter would have laughed if he'd heard it. To his surprise, Hagrid ushered him inside and offered him a seat on a huge crudely carved wooden chair – Beside Potter.

Hagrid looked pretty much the same as Draco remembered him – plus a few new scars either from the war, or recent experiments in raising beasts. His beard had a bit of grey in it, and his long bushy hair was tied back into a loose pony tail. He still was, of course, the size of a small house.

"So, you came after all?" Harry asked, adding a few scoops of sugar to a cup of tea.

"You shouldn't wander off alone, Potter," Draco complained. "It's dangerous."

"Aww, were you worried about me, Malfoy?" He quipped, but something was lacking in his usual sarcastic tone.

"I was," Draco admitted, not bothering to rise to his bait. He didn't feel like sniping at him, apparently. What the hell was wrong with him? With _both_ of them?

"He's right, yeh know," Hagrid agreed. "With what yeh've been tellin' me, yeh've got yourself in a right mess this time, Harry. Not the Grim, though. Grims aren't that bad. They're not as sympathetic to the muggles as yeh'd think. Though, I reckon there's more to that, too, if Harry can see it. Either way, they're at least as smart as yer average ministry politician, an' as loyal as a Slytherin."

Hagrid poured Draco a cup of tea, and he thanked him for it somewhat awkwardly. "Do you mean that in a good way, or a bad one?" Draco asked, in spite of himself.

"A good 'un," Hagrid replied. "I used ter think the whole lot o' yeh were bad news, but Snape turned out alright. He was a slimy git, but his heart was in the right place. An' I know yeh and yer mother both had the chance ter hand Harry over ter you know who, but yeh both did the right thing in the end."

"Why _did_ you lie to him?" Harry asked, sipping his tea. "He would have killed you if he knew."

"Believe it or not, I didn't want you to die," Draco said flatly. "I didn't want _anyone_ to die. I was tired of the killing. So, about this... thing..."

"Right. Sorry. Can't imagine yeh want ter think about that any more'n we do," Hagrid said gruffly. "What's after you is a nocturnox. They're right nasty bastards, and that's comin' from me. There's no tamin' 'em; all they do is kill and they do it fer sport. You can summon 'em with the right materials or a spell, but there's no controllin' 'em once you do. They just do as they please until they're banished."

"What _are_ they, though?" Draco asked, frowning. "I've never heard of a nocturnox before."

"A nocturnox is a sort of ghost. They're Chinese. They call them by some other name, but I don't think I can say it right. They can be summoned anywhere. They're kind of like dementors, but they look like giant black wolves – if you can see 'em," Hagrid explained.

"How do you see them?" Draco asked. "I can't hex something I can't see."

"I thought yeh'd be able ter see it, Malfoy," Hagrid commented. "But I'm honestly glad yeh can't. Only someone who's killed someone can see a nocturnox."

"So, they're like thestrals? If you've seen death you can see a thestral, and if you've caused death you can see a nocturnox?" Harry confirmed.

"Well, shit." Draco picked at the seam of his shirt sleeve that rested above the dark mark.

"Yer Grim can see it, though. It can't hurt it, but it can keep it off yeh. It can't do much to the Grim, either – other than make it vanish for a couple hours if it gets a good hit in. Grims are just ghosts, but they're bloody powerful against the right sort of foes. Yeh just have ter work together and let Darkfoot be yer eyes," Hagrid explained. "Now, nocturnoxes, they don't like wandlight or fire – but sunlight doesn't bother 'em. They can, and will, attack durin' the day. If it hasn't, it's messin' with yeh, makin' you think you're safe. They like to play games with their prey."

"Yeah, we found that one out the hard way." Harry grimaced and gave Draco a knowing half-smile. "Thanks again for saving my hide, Draco."

Draco only grunted in reply. He wished Potter _wouldn't_ call him by his first name. By why did it give him so much satisfaction when he did?

"So, how do we kill the bloody thing?" Draco inquired, taking a sip of his tea.

"You don't," Hagrid answered. "It's not really alive. A patronus can drive it away for a bit, but you have ter find the one who summoned it, and they have ter die. That's the only way to break the link, then it has nothin' to anchor it, and it fades back ter nothin' til someone else summons it."

Harry and Draco's eyes met for the first time that morning.

Hagrid groaned. "Don't tell me yeh summoned it?"

"Yes," Draco and Harry said in unison, staring at the rough wooden floor.

"Well, yeh can still get rid of it, but it'll be risky," Hagrid told them. "You didn't really summon it, if neither of yeh can see it, so don't worry. Doin' the ritual to call it will have got its attention in a bad way, that's why it's after yeh – it thinks yeh're a challenge, and they love a kill they have ter work fer. Yeh have to find the git that _did_ summon it, and he has ter die. Now, I remember a few years back in Sweden a bloke called one, and they were able ter get rid of it without actually killin' him. It took a whole team of healers ter bring him back, but a bunch of Aurors hexed him to almost dead and it was enough to break the link."

"I don't know if I have it in me to _actually_ kill someone," Draco admitted.

"No, but with that greenlox wand, you might be able to do the un-killing," Harry replied.

"Oh no, no, no. I'm not risking that, Potter," Draco retorted. "I only know how to heal non-magical wounds, and I'm not that great at that. The ministry needs to handle this. We need meet with the minister, _now_."

"Yeah, but we don't even know who summoned it," Harry replied hotly.

"No, but we can start with that dead muggle we found. Remember? The Kirin statue was stolen from his house, and he was murdered with the killing curse. He must have gotten in the way when they were taking it," Draco mused, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "So, this person must be a wizard, and considering he's using dark magic and had the ingredients to perform the ritual, he probably is a leftover death eater. Either way, it's out of our depth from here."

"Out of our depth?!" Harry snapped. "We're fucking Aurors! This is our _job;_ if you can't handle, it maybe you _shouldn't_ appeal to get your position back."

"That's not what I meant!" Draco retorted, balling his hands into fists. "I meant it's too big for just the two of us, we need a whole team on this!"

"We don't have time! What if it kills more people! Unless you don't care because it's only going after muggles!"

"And how are we going to stop it, Potter? HOW?"

"That's enough, both of yeh!" Hagrid growled. "I never thought I'd say this, Harry, but Malfoy's right. Yeh need ter take this ter the ministry, especially if it's already been killin' people."

Harry stalked out of Hagrid's house without replying. Draco counted to ten under his breath, and barely resisted the urge to hex him. "Harry, wait."

Where had that come from? When had he become 'Harry' and not 'Potter', or 'that stupid speccy git'? Something had to give, he really couldn't take this anymore.

"What?" Harry snarled, turning back.

"...If you want to go after it, go ahead. I think Darkfoot will come if you call him. I'm no use anyway, seeing as I can't cast a Patronus. I'll go ahead and meet with the minister," Draco suggested.

"Fine, just..."

"You be careful too, you bloody wanker."

* * *

Draco paced the length of Hermione's office restlessly. Kingsley was in a 'very important meeting' and wasn't available. He'd been told to wait in the ministry vestibule, but he doubted he could tolerate being surrounded by people – people that would all be asking him why he resigned. He almost hexed Hermione when she walked through the door. She made a very undignified squeaking noise when she saw him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting my things, actually." She answered. "Harry said you were going to see Hagrid."

"He says it's something called a nocturnox," Draco said and explained everything Hagrid told them.

"That's great and all, but where's Harry?" Hermione asked.

"He went after the bloody thing!"

"Draco, I'm going to need you to calm down," Hermione said softly. "He'll be fine."

"It almost killed him last time!" Draco complained. "What if it's not _almost_ this time! And I don't even know where he's buggered off to!"

Hermione smiled, and Draco considered aiming a curse at her. Potter had gone off to do something stupid with no back-up, and she was standing there _smiling._

"You really do care about him, probably more than you realize," She said, laughing. "It's adorable."

"THIS IS HARDLY THE TIME FOR THAT!" Draco shouted, immediately regretting yelling at her.

"Oh, I don't know, considering he's in a meeting with the minster," Hermione replied, still giggling.

Draco stared at her in disbelief. Seriously? After all that, Potter decided to grow a fucking brain. And didn't tell him. Draco sat down in Hermione's office chair and rested his head on her desk. _That's it_ , he decided, _that arsehole is going to be the actual death of me._

"What is Potter's patronus?" Draco asked.

Hermione stopped piling books into her enchanted handbag, and turned to face him. "A stag. It always has been."

"No," Draco said, finally looking up. "It's changed. It's a snake now. An albino python, I think."

"Oh," Hermione said, and the book she was holding fell out of her hand and hit the floor with a thump. She scrambled to grab it and stuff it in her bag. "Did you manage to cast one?"

"No," He said. "But what does it mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means."

The silence that followed was enough to make Draco wonder if it was possible to cast Avada Kedavra on himself. He decided he'd had enough and took the floo to the manor. He found his mother, as usual, sitting in the Drawing room with a book. She looked up when he entered, and said nothing as he sat beside her.

"You look like you're having a lovely day, Draco," She said, and offered him an apple danish. He refused it and sighed heavily. _Apparently,_ Draco thought to himself, _sarcasm runs in the family._

"I have a problem," He said. "I think I fancy Harry Potter."

"I see; it's about time you admitted it," Narcissa said, with a smirk. "Ever since you came home from Hogwarts for Christmas during your first year, all you ever wanted to talk about was Harry Potter, and how much you _hated_ him."

"You don't care...? You don't think I'm some kind of... I don't know-"

"I am not your father," Narcissa said, cutting him off mid-sentence. "A few years ago, I would have been furious. Circumstances change – _people_ change. I want you to be happy, even if you never seem to see it that way."

"But what do I _do_ about it?" Draco asked, pitifully.

"What do you mean?" Narcissa asked, raising her eyebrows. "Are you asking me if you shou- What was that?"

Draco sat bolt upright, and slipped his wand out of his sleeve. Darkfoot appeared beside him growling, his fur on end.

"Go! Run!" He said to Narcissa, who did the exact opposite and threw her cloak off and drew her wand.

"I don't understand, it couldn't get in here before!" Draco cried, following Darkfoot's movements and dodging to the left as he dove past him. Of course it could, Draco realized. It was smart; he needed to remember that. It had, once again, lured him into a false sense of security. It was Darkfoot the wards had kept out, but only if the doors were shut.

"Can you see it?" Draco called to Narcissa.

His answer was a stunning charm that narrowly missed him and hit thin air. All it did was piss it off, apparently as something that was not Darkfoot made a yelping noise and smashed the end of the drawing room table. Narcissa was cornered, Draco realized. Darkfoot circled around biting at the air. It was enough to give Draco something to aim at.

"Impedimenta!" He shouted, but it obviously didn't work. Darkfoot yelped as he was thrown bodily against the wall, and Draco crashed into the side of the nearly demolished table. He didn't even know the thing had gotten him until he saw the blood dripping down his arm.

"Draco!" Narcissa yelled, and threw a variety of hexes at the place where it must have been.

"The only thing that will work is a patronus!" He yelled and gripped his shoulder where the bastard had clawed him to try and stop the bleeding. He stumbled to his feet, as Darkfoot skidded across the floor in front of him, snarling. If only he could see the fucking thing.

"Can you cast one? I can't."

"No!"

Narcissa dodged a mighty blow from the nocturnox's claws, if the wall exploding in a hail of debris behind her was an indication.

"Darkfoot! Get Potter!" Draco yelled and aimed a series of curses at the dust cloud that gave away the location of the nocturnox. It stalled it, but only barely – judging by the fact that Narcissa was able to duck out of the corner she'd been trapped in. Darkfoot vanished, and Draco prayed they could get out of this somehow. It didn't last long, he dropped his wand as he was thrown to the ground near the fireplace. The room started to spin, and it was all could do to avoid getting hit by bits of broken furniture as the nocturnox thrashed about. Narcissa kept it busy, but Draco was losing too much blood and he knew it. Crawling across the stone floor, he recovered his wand from where it lay under the armchair nearby and shielded himself from a hex that Narcissa cast that missed its mark.

"Draco! You need to move!" Narcissa cried sounding frantic. But he barely heard her as he stared at the puddle of blood forming under him. He was going to die here, that was it. It was over. As if in slow motion, he watched as what was left of the drawing room table was smashed, and the largest piece of it was hurled right for him. He came to his senses long enough to try to stand, but the blood loss made him dizzy and he lost his footing. He never hit the floor, though. Someone caught him and Darkfoot took the blow from the flying debris. The Grim was completely dematerialized from the force of it. The chunk of wood fell just a few feet short of Draco.

"You're late, Potter." Draco mumbled, knowing it was Potter from the scent of his shampoo, of all things. He heard Narcissa scream, and everything went black.

* * *

Draco woke to the sound of a dog barking. He blinked slowly, and shut his eyes tight. The light was too bright, and his head ached something terrible. His whole body ached, come to think of it. Something cold and wet slid across his hand. He startled and opened his eyes. Darkfoot was licking his hand. It felt weird, and kind of gross – not warm like a living dog.

"Stop that," He mumbled, barely able to speak. Where was he? Why was the light so bright? Why did his body feel like lead? He could barely lift his arm to rub at his tired eyes. He tried to roll over, but a horrible pain his left shoulder stopped him. He gasped and almost fainted from the intensity of it. Right. His shoulder. Flashes of the fight in drawing room came back to him, most memorably a pool of his own hot blood running in rivulets from his neck and shoulder. The nocturnox had definitely severed an artery. He looked up at the ceiling. Plain white, nothing of note. He wasn't able to turn his head to see anything else, but it didn't take a genius to realize where he was. St. Mungo's.

"Draco?" That was his mother's voice. So, she was safe. Thank God.

He mumbled something unintelligible in reply.

"It's over," She said, reaching over to hold his hand. "This morning the ministry's Aurors caught the man who summoned it. He's dead, they couldn't take him alive. Potter's here somewhere. He's barely left your side. It's been three days."

But if he was at St. Mungo's, why wasn't he healed? It hadn't been that difficult to seal Potter's wounds after it attacked him.

"The healers said nothing they have done has been able to heal where it clawed you," Narcissa said, if she'd read his mind. "Magic can't touch it. It will heal, albeit at normal rate. You will be here for a while. They are still trying to figure out how you were able to heal Potter when he suffered the same wounds. The healers are saying it should not have been possible."

Draco wished they'd at least bring him another pillow. Or Potter. For some reason, he just needed to hear his voice. Everything would be okay if he did.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Chocolate Frogs and New Beginnings**

* * *

Draco was bored, and sore, but mostly bored. The pain wasn't too bad; the healers gave him potions to deal with that. Once he was well enough, he spoke with the healer in charge of him, a woman named Mary Talcott, about the spell he'd used to patch Potter up. She had neither been able to replicate it, nor make anything else work. So, Draco was restricted to bed rest for the time being while it healed on its own. The nocturnox's claws had done a lot of damage, apparently – worse than it had when it attacked Potter. It didn't get anything important – not like Draco who wound up with a broken collar bone and severed carotid artery. Draco was very lucky he wasn't dead, or brain-dead at the very least.

He was still bored, though. Harry, Hermione and his mother stayed with him most of the time to keep him company. Weasley even visited on his lunch break one day with Hermione. At least Healer Talcott kept her prodding to a minimum, aside from changing his bandages three times a day. He just wished they'd give him a nightshirt with long sleeves so he didn't have to see the bloody dark mark every time he tried to do something. He hated it, and having it visible made him feel vulnerable.

"I've decided I'm not going back to being an Auror," Potter said, later that afternoon. He sat in a chair next to Draco's bed, reading the _Prophet._

"What are you going to do with yourself, then – Oh gracious savior," Draco drawled.

"I was actually thinking of opening a coffee shop in Diagon alley," He replied. "There's an empty shop near Flourish and Blots that would be just the right size."

"A coffee shop?" Draco asked, incredulously. Did he talk in his sleep about his secret love affair with muggle coffee or something?

"That's funny. It was your idea, you colossal twat," Harry said, sounding oddly affectionate.

So, that was a 'yes' then. "Anything interesting in the news?"

"Not really. Hermione's got her job back, and so do we if we want it. Turns out Kingsley only sacked us to try to keep the thing away from the ministry, seeing as its in the middle of muggle London. It's shitty he thought he had to lie about it to keep us out, though," Harry told him. "So, since it's just the two of us right now, can we talk?" He added and set the paper aside.

"I suppose it's inevitable. If I talked about liking muggle coffee while they had me in stasis, which I would have admitted over my dead body, I can only imagine what else I said," Draco whined in a defeated tone.

"Actually, it's not as bad as you think," Harry said, laughing. "Mostly you just cried about missing the pet crup you had when you were a kid, and that you wanted to tell Hagrid sorry for trying to rat him out about the dragon in our first year – because you always wanted a dragon, too."

Draco laughed, in spite of himself. He regretted it instantly, because fuck it hurt, but it was a pretty amusing image.

"Yeah, but it was what your mother said that made me start thinking about some things," Harry said. "It was right after the fight, and she was covered in dirt, your blood, and her robes were half torn off. She pulled me aside after they took you in for surgery, and told me she'd personally kill me with her bare hands if I ever hurt you. Then she just smiled and went to get us coffee. From a muggle coffee shop. In her torn, bloody robes. It was fucking weird. And how elegant and poised she was while drenched in blood, in a _muggle coffee shop_ was honestly terrifying,"

Draco rolled his eyes, and reached for the box of Bertie Botts every flavor beans on his beside table. Hermione and Ron had gotten them for him, along with a bunch of other sweets from Honeydukes. "That woman is going to be the death of me."

"So, what about you, Draco?" Harry asked, stealing a handful of the Bertie's Bott's beans. "Still going to get your Auror certification?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking about what I want to do, versus what I should do," Draco replied thoughtfully. "But, I don't know what I _want_ to do, or if that even matters. I have to redeem myself, somehow. When I see my name in the _P_ _rophet_ , I want to see it next to something I can be proud of, and not preceded by 'ex-death eater scum'."

"No offense, but you're a shit Auror. I mean, I am too, so..."

"Potter, you killed Voldemort. You aren't a bad Auror, as much as it pains me to say that." Draco decided against risking biting into a sickly snot yellow colored bean and dropped it back in the box in favor of a pale pink one that turned out to be candy floss flavored. "Come to think of that, you killed Voldemort. How come you couldn't see the nocturnox?"

"I didn't kill him, though. The elder wand betrayed him, and the curse he meant for me rebounded onto him. So, remember what I said about just being lucky something hasn't killed me yet? Yeah." Harry decided to brave the yellow bean, and almost immediately spat it out. "Urgh. I think that was urine."

Draco cringed and sat the beans aside. "Let's try the chocolate frogs, then. I haven't had one in years. Not since Hogwarts."

Harry tossed him a chocolate frog and grabbed one for himself. "I've got Ptolemy," Harry said with a wistful smile and let the frog jump onto Draco's lap. "I wonder if Ron still cares about his card collection. I think he mentioned years ago that he was missing this one."

"This one's... _You_." Draco made a face and bit the frog's head off. Harry laughed and tossed the empty wrappers on top of the growing pile at the foot of Draco's bed. The photo of Harry on the card looked bored, but he smiled when he noticed Draco was looking at him. Draco decided he liked Potter's smile.

"Hey. Did we just have an entire conversation without a 'fuck you' or, a 'piss off, Potter'?" Harry asked, with a smirk. "I'm beginning to think you might fancy me, Malfoy."

"Piss the fuck off, Potter," Draco replied, with a genuine bark of laughter. "In your dreams."

"That's better," Harry chuckled and threw a questionable looking speckled puke green Bertie Bott's bean at Draco. He caught it, and ate it.

"Urgh." Draco nearly retched. "Swamp water."

"You know. I love this stuff, this stupid kids' candy I mean," Harry said, inspecting a package of sweets from George's shop that Ron had brought over. They hadn't touched it so far; with Draco's luck it would be full of puking pastilles or something. "When I first met Ron on the Hogwarts express for our first year, I'd never imagined anything like this existed, so I bought a little bit of everything from the from the trolley. We spent the whole train ride stuffing our faces. I'd never had so much fun before."

Draco smiled in spite of himself. "I don't think I have either, and that's fucking insane considering I'm stuck in the hospital, stitched up like a sodding muggle. At least they could fix the broken bones."

"God, Draco. There was so much blood. I almost got myself killed while I was panicking because there was _so much blood_. ...I thought I'd lost you. I wasn't sure what to do until your mother started yelling about casting a patronus, and broke the manor wards somehow to apparate us here." Harry said, looking a little green around the edges.

"I guess we'll have matching scars," Draco commented. "Sort of."

"So, should I look into that interior decorator, or..."

"I'll see about adopting a crup, then."

They made eye contact and fell into a fit of laughter. Draco wondered how different things might have been if they'd met under better circumstances – if they'd been friends instead of antagonizing each other for all those years. They would have to make up for lost time, he supposed. He wished Potter could stay when the nurse came in to chase him out, as it was well after visiting hours. If nothing else, Draco got some satisfaction out of the look of disdain on her face when she noticed the candy wrappers everywhere and had to clean them all up – from almost every corner of the room.

What was he going to do with himself when the healers let him go? The masochist in him screamed to reclaim his position as an Auror. But did he want to do it? It made him look good, sure, fighting dark magic and kissing the ministry's and Wizengamot's collective arse. The panic attacks would never stop, though. His past would still be lurking in every shadow. Not an Auror, then. No. It was time for a fresh start – time to figure out who Draco Malfoy was really meant to be. He still had to prove himself. He'd need to something meaningful, something that made a difference. But, what? He sighed and stared at the shadows that danced across that ceiling as the nurses and hospital staff walked through the hall outside the open door to his room.

Draco tucked the chocolate frog card with Harry on it inside a book sitting the table next to him – a muggle book meant for beginner medical students. Hermione had brought him a whole pile of them, which meant she _knew_ about the two he pilfered from the library that afternoon. His face turned pink just thinking about it. He really thought he'd gotten away with it. It wasn't he like he was turning into some kind of muggle lover; he just found their science fascinating.

* * *

The following day wasn't much more interesting than the previous five. Healer Talcott informed him that he was making good progress, that he'd be able to go home and be bored and miserable in his own bed if he was still showing signs of improvement by the end of the week. For today, though, he'd still be bored and miserable by himself at St. Mungo's. Harry and Hermione were at some sort of party at the Weasley house. Harry had profusely apologized for abandoning him, and promised to pop by later with some of Mrs. Weasley's famous baked treats. Draco thought it was an amazing thing that he wasn't gaining weight with the amount of rubbish he'd been eating. Still, he appreciated it. The ridiculous stack of cookie and candy boxes on his bedside table were probably the first gifts anyone had given him because they actually cared, and not just to bribe him for something. How was it that he could be in this state, yet be happier than he had been in years?

Absently, Draco pulled Harry's chocolate frog card out of the medical text book and looked at it fondly. The photo of Harry winked and made a rude hand gesture. Draco smirked and wondered if Harry's photo did that for anyone else, or just him. A light knock on his door distracted him from his thoughts and he put the card back into the book for safekeeping.

"Morning, Malfoy." Draco would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised to see Weasley there by himself, without Hermione at his side. According to her and Harry, he'd made it quite plain that he had no interest in being friends with Draco. He had, however, promised to be civil. If nothing else, apparently the last few years had been relatively kind to Ron. He had a lean, muscular frame and looked halfway decent with his long ginger hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He actually appeared to be a relatively handsome, functional adult – no longer the awkward teenager that Draco remembered.

"Good morning, Weasley," Draco replied. "You aren't attending the party?"

"I'm heading over now; just got off work. The whole Auror department had to pull an all-nighter to clean up what was left from the nocturnox case. Obliviating muggles, repairing buildings, you know – the usual. It made a hell of a mess after the fight at your manor. It killed ten muggles at some theater in London while we were raiding the lair of the barmy git that summoned it," Ron explained and sat in the chair that Harry usually occupied.

"Was he a death eater?" Draco asked, curiously. Statistically speaking, most recent cases involving dark wizards didn't involve Voldemort's followers, but he was curious what the man's motivations were.

"Nah, the bloke was blood supremacist, though. He originally only meant to set it on muggles, but he couldn't actually control it. I guess the self-important prick thought he was made of tougher stuff than he actually was. He put up a hell of a fight, though. Baker and Reeves are still here, upstairs on the spell damage floor. We didn't lose anyone, thankfully," Ron explained, and helped himself to a chocolate cookie from the open box on the bed next to Draco.

Draco was pretty sure this was the most Weasley had ever spoken to him, and apparently he was keeping his promise to be civil. Stranger things have happened, he reminded himself.

"Anyway, I've got to run, but 'Mione wanted me to give you this." Ron handed Draco a thick parchment envelope. "Something about keeping you busy while we aren't here to harass you."

"Right, thanks?"

"Sure, mate. I have no idea what she's on about, but that's 'Mione," Ron said with a shrug. "So, um, thanks. I mean, Harry seems a lot less miserable since you started working together. And if he can be friends with you, I guess I owe it to him to try, too. Don't get me wrong, I still think you're a pretentious wanker, but people can change. I get it. So, friends?"

"The world is ending. Either that or they've given me some incredible mind altering substances," Draco said, unable to keep the astonishment out of his tone. "I still think you're a blathering idiot, but sure. Why the fuck not?"

"Right. Well, see you later. Oh, don't eat the chocolates from George's shop. I kept some for myself and well, they'll turn your junk purple and spotty for like eight hours," Ron warned him, rolling his eyes.

Draco laughed, and winced as a sharp pain lanced through his shoulder. "I appreciate the warning, though I would appreciate it even more if you obliviate me. I did not not need that image in my mind."

"Not a chance, Ferretface." Ron gave him a mock salute and disappeared through the open door.

Draco finally looked down at the envelope in his hands, and raised his eyebrows. It was addressed to Hermione, and sent from Loxley Hollow Academy of the Healing Arts in Whitechapel. Hermione had already opened it, as the forest green wax seal depicting an ivy leaf had already been torn off. He pulled out the contents that barely fit in the half-torn envelope. On top, was a note from Hermione:

 _Draco,_

 _I know that being an Auror means a lot to you, but I hope you'll consider other options – ones that don't necessarily involve directly fighting dark wizards. You don't have to go around getting hexed on a daily basis to do good for others, and it's obvious you don't enjoy it. So, I looked into the requirements of healer training for you. Maybe it's something you would be interested in? It can't hurt to look into it. There's a few other schools of healing magic in England, but the staff at St. Mungo's said Loxley Hollow is the best._

Draco stared at the note, wondering how anyone could possibly think _he_ would make a good healer. He had no patience, hated the general populace, and would probably have the bedside manner of a disgruntled dementor. But... He _had_ always been fascinated by healers, and no one would deny that he was Snape's favorite student for a reason when it came to his potion making skills. Shaking his head, he read over the list of credentials necessary to be accepted into the academy:

\- NEWT grades of at least E in Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Alright, he had that, with an O in everything except Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration, which he'd scraped an E out of by sheer bullshit weaving on the essay portion of the exams. He wasn't a Ravenclaw by any means, but Draco had always gotten good marks in school and had been an excellent test taker.

\- A letter of recommendation from an approved school of wizardry, penned by a professor of one of the above fields, to be attached to the completed application. Pity Snape had passed away. Draco supposed McGonagle would do it if he asked nicely.

Draco set the list aside and skimmed over the rather lengthy application form. It had everything from a page about basic identification information, to essays meant to assess current knowledge of the field, and even a questionnaire that was obviously some sort of personality profiling device. It would take _hours_ to fill out this nonsense.

Draco called a nurse and asked for a quill and ink.

* * *

When Harry returned later, carrying a paper bag full of Molly Weasley's homemade treats for Draco, he was sitting up reading the beginner's medical textbook that Hermione had left for him. It mostly contained basic methods of first aid for emergency medics, and general ethical practices. He highly doubted it would be approved by Loxley Hollow's curriculum, but it was a start.

"Harry," Draco said. "I know what I'm going to do with myself."

"...Is that a muggle medical textbook?" He asked incredulously and unceremoniously plopped himself into his chair. "Who are you and where the hell is Draco?"

"Hermione gave them to me, she may or may not have caught me stealing similar ones when we at the library," Draco admitted sheepishly.

"So, you're going to be a healer? That's great! Hermione told me that she was looking into it for you." Harry opened the box of pastries and pulled out a generous helping of apple pie. "Try this, it's amazing," He insisted, offering it Draco.

Draco's mouth watered at the sight of it. "Apple pie is my favorite."

"You eat desserts like an absolute tart, you know that?" Harry said, his eyes twinkling as Draco savored a bite of the pie.

"You like it," Draco observed.

"I do."

"So, what are you going to do? We both know the coffee shop thing was a joke." Draco licked a bit pie filling off his fingertip seductively, just to annoy Potter, and was greatly satisfied to see him squirm uncomfortably as he watched.

"Yeah, I _am_ thinking of getting a shop in Diagon Alley, though. The owner of Magical Menagerie is retiring, and it's up for sale. I'm not an expert on magical pets, but I'm sure Hagrid will help. You will, too, right?" Harry replied. "You know, when you're not busy studying. I imagine healer training involves a revolting amount of studying."

"If that's what you want. But you better not come home smelling of crup dung," Draco admonished him.

"...Home?"

Draco choked on his pie, and wondered where his mind had gone. He'd let his guard down, he knew that. With the nocturnox banished, he wouldn't need to stay at Grimmauld place. ...But Potter wasn't Potter anymore. He was Harry now, and having spent the last few days sharing sweets, and doing nothing, but talking about nothing in particular, had drawn them together in a way Draco never would have expected. How they were now, reminded him of evenings in the Slytherin common room with Pansy and Blaise. This was more relaxed though. It felt natural, right.

"I just meant that..." Draco's voice trailed off, and he grudgingly looked up at Harry. "I don't know what I meant."

"You're welcome at my place, if you really want to stay there. I am going to remodel it, though. You're right. It's fucking depressing," Harry replied. "Um, Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"When did you realize you're gay?"

So, we're having _that_ talk finally, Draco thought dismally and answered as best as he could. "I think I always did, deep down. All the years I listened to my father prattle on about finding me a good pure-blood wife, I would cringe every time he brought it up. I couldn't think of a single less appealing thing. I didn't really know what the alternatives were, I was a child, but I knew I didn't want that. It was in the fifth year at Hogwarts that I started to really think about it, though."

Draco paused to sample a bit of chocolate cake. "You remember the prefects' bathroom? I'm sure you do, everyone sneaked in there at night at least once. The Slytherin house bathrooms were like that, a tub the size of a swimming pool, and we all took baths together. Boys and girls separately, obviously. I forget his name, but there was a bloke a year ahead of us. He looked like he belonged on the cover of _Witch Weekly_. Anyway, he always used to prance about the place arse naked, and more than once I caught myself staring."

"Was he gay?"

"No, he was just a twat - a very handsome twat. But it wasn't until I tried dating Pansy in the sixth year that I knew it for sure. She has the patience of a saint, by the way. I don't know how many times she tried to get frisky with me, and I just... Had no interest in her. Absolutely nothing about her was arousing to me," Draco continued, watching Harry nibble on a peanut butter cookie. "I tried not think about it for a long time after that. I was afraid to, and I still kind of hate that part of myself. I was terrified of how my father would react, and God forbid if it turned my mother against me. After the war... All I had was my mother. Everything I'd been taught growing up told me that being gay was wrong, disgusting even."

"Is that a pure-blood thing, or just a thing? It seems like there's a lot more gay muggles than wizards," Harry observed.

"It's a pure-blood thing, but it's not really acceptable in general for upstanding members of wizarding society," Draco answered dully. "I met up with Blaize again through Auror training, and thought I could trust him to talk about some of what I was feeling. And well, you know how that ended. ...And it wasn't that bloody article that ended it."

"What did?"

Draco sighed and picked at the edge of his blanket. "My own insecurities. I had no idea what to do; not a with a bloke. ...Not really in general at all, where sex is concerned. Blaise made fun of me for it, and I was nervous. It was a disaster before it went anywhere."

"He sounds like a wanker."

"He is. He's Blaise. So, when did _you_ realize that you are gay?"

Harry's answer, when it came, surprised Draco. "I think I knew all along, too, in a way. Ron and Hermione always used to take the piss out of me about you – Well, the way I was always obsessed with you, I mean. Then there was that fiasco with Cho Chang during fifth year. I'm relatively sure I was just the next best replacement for Cedric Diggory, and kissing her was... Not great."

"Obsessed with me?" Draco asked, raising his eyebrows. "Obsessed, how?"

"Well, for some reason I always cared what you were up to, but I don't why. And, well, this is going back a long time ago so don't take this personally... But I always assumed you were up to no good. Like, I honestly thought it was you with the chamber of secrets. But uh, you didn't have anything to do with me realizing I'm gay," Harry tried to explained.

"To be fair, I never was up to much good. When I wasn't antagonizing you lot, I was hexing first years with boils, or charming the girls' toilets to explode when someone used them," Draco said with a smirk. "So, you weren't entirely wrong."

"Anyway, it wasn't you that made me realize I'm gay. ...Not _entirely_ anyway. It was when I was with Ginny. Like you with Pansy, I never managed to give her what she wanted from me. I always would find some excuse to avoid sex. I had to work late, I was going out drinking with Ron, I was too hungover in the morning, etc." Harry licked a bit of icing off a cupcake and seemed to be thinking of less than fondly of the memories.

"One day, she finally got angry with me. It was over breakfast. There was something in the paper about your father's sentence having been lessened by a few years. I mentioned it, and that I was wondering what you were up to – other than struggling through Auror training because I knew how much shit they were giving you. Ginny kind of snapped, and asked me why I cared so much about what you were up to when I never bothered to ask her how her day was. She said 'Blimey, go shag him and get it over with, because apparently poncy blonde bastards are more your type'."

Draco chuckled, and wished he could have seen Harry's face when she'd said that. He'd have to settle for the blush that crept into his cheeks reminiscing about it; clearly it was still one of his more embarrassing memories. "So what happened then? Clearly you made amends, as you're still quite close."

"We decided to end it, but we'll always be like family. The Weasleys are the closest thing I've got to a family, after all. And, it's the stupidest thing, but Ginny losing her shit on me about you made me wonder if maybe I did fancy blokes," Harry said, glancing toward the open door to Draco's room.

Don't you dare, Draco complained to himself. Harry wasn't good at dealing with emotions, he realized. Probably worse than he was. His first reaction to an uncomfortable social situation seemed to be to bail out of it entirely. Draco usually would manage to smooth talk his way into a different subject of discussion, but Harry literally ran – like the other night with the stupid snake patronus. So much for that legendary Gryffindor courage. He'd have to back him into a corner, then. All in due time.

"So, you've been obsessed with me since we were eleven; that's kind of adorable. If it's any consolation, I wasn't any better. It was always Potter did this, Potter said that, fuck Potter and his new broomstick, and look at Potter's stupid hair – it's like he doesn't know what a comb is," Draco drawled, smiling to himself.

"There's nothing wrong with my hair!"

"Please, Harry, it looks like your kneazle hacked up a hairball on your head. And those jeans... ugh. Do you own jeans without holes in them?"

"Do you even own jeans at all? Or anything that's not disgustingly formal and costs more than I make in a month? God, Draco, you're so _gay_."

Both of them fell into hysterics, which resulted in Draco's nurse yelling at them to be quiet – and shooing Harry out of the room, because he'd once again sneaked in after visiting hours.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes:** Oh, things _are_ getting exciting. :3 This chapter is a little short, but there's a lot going on in it so there's that.

* * *

 **Chapter 12: The Best Day Ever**

* * *

The following morning, Draco was _finally_ released from St. Mungo's with strict instructions not to do anything strenuous. Which, according to Weasley – the absolute twat, included shagging Harry. Draco had just rolled his eyes, but Harry had gone about ten shades of pink and disappeared for a good hour. To be fair, listening to Hermione ream Ron out like there was no tomorrow had been more than a little amusing.

Draco decided he'd had enough of sitting around feeling sorry for himself, and apparated to Hogsmeade. He had plans to pay a certain ex-transfiguration professor a visit. It was the last week of August, and the term would start soon at Hogwarts, so he had no reason to doubt that Headmistress Minerva McGonagle would there making sure everything was in order. He needed to get his application in to Loxley Hollow before the 25th in order to (hopefully) be accepted before their classes started, or he would have to wait until the next year. To do that, he still needed that bloody letter of recommendation.

He found McGonagle easily enough, sitting in the great hall with Hagrid, Poppy Pomfrey, and professor Neville Longbottom. They were talking about scheduling deadlines, and picking a new head of house for Gryffindor, following the retirement of yet another Defense the Dark Arts teacher. Some things never change, Draco thought to himself and took a seat beside Hagrid. It was still sort of surreal, the fact that people like Hagrid and Ollivander tolerated his presence. Even Longbottom had been civil with him when he needed advice on a past Auror case.

"Mornin' Malfoy," Hagrid said and patted him on the shoulder – the bad one, of course. Draco only just managed not to curse him, verbally and otherwise. His arm was in a sling for fuck's sake. Was he blind? "Good ter see yeh up and about. Harry told me what happened at yer manor."

"Suffice to say, we have some remodeling to do," Draco replied, rubbing his sore shoulder.

"I thought nocturnoxes were just a tall tale," Neville said, stirring his coffee. "It's all anyone's talking about. Did you see the _Prophet_ this morning, by the way?"

Draco shook his head, dread welling up inside him.

"Look, here," Neville told him, pointing to a spot near the end of the front page article about the cleanup of the theater where it had killed ten muggles.

Draco sighed and read it aloud. "'The ministry personally thanks Aurors Potter and Malfoy' – what? ...'Without their dedication to this case, it would not have been solved so quickly and many more would have perished'." He stared at it in disbelief. The _Prophet_ said something _positive_ about Draco fucking Malfoy, without a single mention of his past, or his father. He laid it down on the table and stared at in silence. What were they on about? He hadn't even _done_ anything – aside from get his arse handed to him by it.

"So, I can't imagine you are here to read the news over breakfast with us, Mister Malfoy," Minerva said pointedly. She looked good, Draco thought. She was getting up there in years, but she seemed full of energy and still had her distinctive poise and mannerisms that often reminded him of his mother.

"That's true. I am... Thinking of a career change. I'm not a very good Auror, as it were," Draco explained, and pulled out the paperwork for Loxley Academy that he'd stuffed in his back pocket. "I am applying to study healing at Loxley Academy, but I need a letter of recommendation to be accepted. I was hoping you might assist me with that, Headmistress."

"You'll need more than that to get accepted there, Malfoy. They are very picky with what students they choose to teach," Poppy said, motioning for him to show her his application. He handed it over without replying. "It took me three years to get accepted before I studied there."

"Healing, huh? What made you pick that?" Neville asked while she read over his application. "And is it true that Harry's quitting being an Auror, too?"

"Honestly, Hermione's been badgering me to do it. It doesn't seem like a bad plan," Draco replied. "And yes, he's tired of being a hero, I imagine."

"I'm impressed," Poppy said, and laid his papers on the table in front of her. "You have a relatively solid understanding of the principals of the magic involved, and basic anatomy – going by your answers to the questionnaire. You've studied some of this on your own, then?"

"Not exactly," Draco admitted. "Snape taught me some basic healing spells in the sixth year because of, well, what I got myself dragged into back then. Most of it's actually based on what I've learned reading some muggle medical text books. And, of course, I was always good with potions."

"That's not a bad thing. Muggles have made some very impressive strides in the medical field in recent years, and being able to compare the two will give you another perspective to work with when you're confronted with something unusual," Poppy told him and neatly stored his application back in the envelope. "You should do it, Minerva. By the looks of his application, he has a good foundation to start with. Actually, you and Neville can both sign it. He needs all the help he can get."

For the first time in years, Draco felt like he was doing something right. With the recommendation letter and proof of his NEWT scores in hand, he headed straight the owlry to send the application in with one of the Hogwarts owls. Afterward, he headed home to the manor to rest. He was healing well, but he still didn't have much energy. There was still one thing on his mind, though – If the man the Aurors had caught truly had summoned the nocturnox, why did he try to dispose of the statue? And why had it wound up in a pawn shop that it kept finding its way back to? That and, well, he was bloody pissed he was too busy being nearly dead to help find the wanker. He'd have liked to have cursed his unmentionables off. Either way, Draco was sure they hadn't seen the last of the whole fiasco just yet.

* * *

Harry was avoiding him. Draco was fairly certain of that, and the fact that he would come around when he was good and ready. So, he didn't mind sitting alone in the kitchen at Grimmauld place with only Princess for company. He hadn't seen Darkfoot since waking up in St. Mungo's, but he assumed the Grim only would only come around when he was in danger, or if it was called.

"I still think you're a pretentious little twat," Draco drawled, making a face at Princess who was sitting in the chair opposite him. Only her beady yellow eyes and the tips of her ears peeked over the edge of the table. "Mostly because _you_ get to sleep with Harry and I don't."

She mewled balefully and turned her back to him. Business as usual, then. At least he could make light of his awkward tangle of feelings for Harry with no one listening but an obnoxious kneazle. God forbid if Harry had heard that. Draco would kill himself. He took a sip of tea and skimmed over the _Prophet._ There wasn't anything particularly noteworthy – just some nonsense about Hogwarts' new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher: Blaise Zabini. Draco choked on his tea and nearly fell out of his chair. Blaise? _Really?_ Did McGonagle know that he couldn't duel his way out of a wet paper bag? Draco groaned and tossed the paper away. He wasn't sure if he hoped Blaise would survive more than a year, or that he'd be the next in line to either die or be driven mad. Even after they'd left Hogwarts, no one lasted more than one term teaching that subject. It _had_ to be cursed.

Draco stretched and yawned. It was still early, and he was bored of hanging around the manor. His mother had already repaired most of the damage from the attack, anyway. He hoped he'd get an owl from Loxley some time soon. He'd never have time to get all his school supplies before the term started if it took any longer. More than once he'd caught himself looking out windows in hopes of seeing an owl waiting for him. At least he was mostly healed and didn't have to keep his arm in a sling anymore. It still hurt like a bitch if he wasn't careful about how he moved, or if he slept in an awkward position.

"Come on, he can't work all night _and_ all day," Draco complained to Princess' backside. "He has to come home sometime. What is he even doing? Shoveling out the crup kennels with a teaspoon?"

Harry had officially purchased the deed to Magical Menagerie the day that Draco had been released from St. Mungo's. The store was closed for the time being, while Harry sorted out the finances and helped the previous owner pack what she was taking with her. They hadn't talked much since, and Draco decided he was tired of being ignored. Just as Draco was considering apparating to Diagon Alley to harass him, there was a light tapping at the kitchen window. He opened it wandlessly with a careless flick of his fingers. A huge snowy owl swooped inside and dropped a mint-green colored envelope on the table in front of Draco. It fluttered its wings and perched itself on the back of Princess' chair. She hissed at it, and was rewarded with a stern glare and a soft hoot. Draco wasn't entirely sure what kind of conversation they were having, and didn't want to know. He picked up the envelope, expecting it to be Harry's mail, only to momentarily forget how to breathe when he saw that it was addressed to him from Loxley Hollow. He tore off the familiar forest green wax seal with an ivy leaf on it with shaking hands.

 _Mister Malfoy,_

 _I have reviewed your application, and it is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into Loxley Hollow Academy of Healing Arts. Normally there is a secondary interview process before prospective students are officially accepted, however the new term begins on September 5th. In light of this I have decided to make an exception in your case in order to give you time to acquire your uniform and all necessary supplies. You will, however, be required to maintain an E average or above for all of your classes for the first two semesters of this term in lieu of the interview and entry exam._

 _Please return the second page of this packet with your signature and the date, as proof your intention to attend, and your acceptance of these terms. A list of all required items and texts is included in this letter. You will receive your course schedule and all other assignments on the first day of the new term. Best of luck to you!_

 _Yours Truly,_

 _Healer Sean Lee Martin_

 _Headmaster, Loxley Hollow Academy of Healing Arts_

Draco almost tripped over his chair in his haste to rifle through the drawer where he knew Harry kept random odds and ends in search of a quill. The owl waited rather patiently, he thought. He found a bent, ruffled up raven feather quill and a half dried up bottle of green ink. Hastily, he signed the form and stuffed it in a new envelope addressed to Headmaster Martin.

"Thank you for bearing with me," He said to the owl who took the letter in its beak and disappeared through the window. He wasted no time finding the list of supplies, and groaned aloud when he saw it. Most of it he could find in Diagon Alley, but he'd have to make a whole day of it, and some of it he'd have to go to the apothecary in Hogsmeade for. ...Unless he could harass a certain savior of the wizarding world into helping him.

He pocketed the list and apparated to Diagon alley without a second thought.

Draco knocked on the locked door of Magical Menagerie and tapped his foot on the ground impatiently while he waited. Eventually, Harry showed up and opened the door. He looked dead tired, and like he'd worn the same clothes for the past three days.

"You look like shit," Draco commented.

"You look... Happy?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows.

Draco shoved the letter from Loxley's headmaster into his hands and gave him a positively shit eating grin. "I was hoping you might help me go shopping."

When Harry didn't reply as he read over the revoltingly long list of supplies, Draco decided to take a (somewhat) calculated risk. He shut the door of the shop behind him and nearly tackled Harry in a fierce hug. He made a strangled sound like a crup being trodden on and lost his footing, which caused them both to fall against the counter with a soft thud.

"Ugh. That hurt," Draco whinged, dropping his head to Harry's shoulder.

"Of course it did, idiot." Harry shoved him upright, but not away from him, very much to Draco's surprise. "So, uh, what the hell was that about?" He added, extricating himself from Draco's arms.

"Because I'm happy! ...I think. And it's because of you, and Hermione, but none of it would have been possible without you," Draco replied, taking a look around the shop. A pair of tawny kneazles glared at him from their perch on a shelf nearby. A blonde crup was fast asleep in a tatty old chair. A bunch kittens played in a pen, and there was a huge tank full of frogs on the counter beside them. The place needed some cleaning up, that was for sure, but Draco could see why Harry wanted it – it was as chaotic as he was.

"Good, now learn how to cast a damn patronus charm," Harry teased and straightened Draco's shirt collar that had gotten messed up when he tackled him.

"You know, I think I might be able to now," Draco replied and pulled out his wand.

He thought of them laughing together over those stupid Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, the chocolate frog card with Harry's photo on it that he kept tucked in his pocket, and the way his heart felt like it might burst when he read the letter from Loxley Hollow.

"Expecto Patronum!" It wasn't a weak silvery mist this time, but a fully corporeal being. It was not, however, at all what he expected. "A... Skunk?"

Harry nearly fell over laughing. "Yeah, 'cause you stink, Malfoy," He commented, obviously for lack of a better sarcastic reply.

"Shut up, Potter," Draco drawled with a dumb grin on his face. "I actually fucking did it!"

"I know, right?" Harry said, his eyes sparkling. "Wait 'til we tell Hermione!"

"So... Shopping?"

"Can we do it tomorrow? I'm beat."

"Yeah," Draco agreed. "Today's the first; the term doesn't start until the fifth. We've got a little time."

The skunk patronus rubbed itself against Harry's legs, completely unnoticed by him, before it vanished.

"So, are you staying there or...?"

"I don't see why I would, I can apparate there for classes. Besides, I was thinking I would like to stay with you, if you'll let me," Draco replied.

"What about your mother?" Harry asked, leaning on the counter.

"Honestly, I'd rather avoid the manor. In October my father's sentence will over," Draco told him, uncertain of how he really felt about it. "Mother is glad, but I... I think it's time I left that behind. New beginnings and all that drivel. I'm a disgrace to the Malfoy name, after all. And, it's taken some time, but I'm okay with that now."

"If that's what you want, you know you're welcome at my house," Harry told him. "But why not get someplace of your own? I know you can afford it."

"Actually, I'm going to be piss broke after paying for healer training – at least four years of it before I can work in the field outside of an apprenticeship," Draco replied, and took a step closer to Harry so that their noses were almost touching. "Besides, I know you're thick sometimes, but there's no way that you haven't realized that I actually _like_ you by now. You speccy git."

"You... Like me?"

"Yes, Harry." Draco leaned forward a bit, placing his hands on the counter on either side of Harry's hips, effectively trapping him there. Really, could he be any more oblivious? What was he going to have to get the point across? Kiss him? ...Would that be alright, or would Harry run? He really wanted to kiss him, and Draco always got what he wanted one way or another.

"Do you mean...?"

"Fuck it." Draco closed the distance between them with a kiss, tangling his fingers into Harry's ridiculous mop of hair. Harry gasped, but didn't push him away. Draco panicked for a moment, thinking he'd made a mistake, but relief washed over him as Harry placed his hands on his hips and relaxed into the kiss. When they separated from sheer need for air, Draco's head was spinning.

Harry wrapped his arms tightly around Draco's waist and nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck. "That was the best kiss I've ever had," He mumbled. "...Don't tell Ginny that."

"Don't compare me to the Weaselette," Draco breathed and buried his face in Harry's hair.

"...I like you, too." Harry said quietly. "I think I have for a _very_ long time."

Draco was about to reply, but the sound of the bell attached to the shop door ringing interrupted him.

"Harry, I think we have everything we need. Hagrid said the puffskeins like to – _Oh_!" Hermione gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. "Should we go?"

"No, it's alright," Draco said in what he hoped was a calm tone and untangled himself from Harry, though he was sure his face was the color of a tomato. Harry just stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. Ron, standing beside Hermione, had a similar expression plastered across his face.

"By the way, I've been accepted into Loxley Hollow."

Hermione squealed, and hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe.

"So much hugging," He whinged, managing to pry her off of him.

"Oh, _and_ he can cast a patronus charm," Harry interjected, grinning like an idiot. "It's a _skunk_."

"Because I _smell_ , apparently." Draco rolled his eyes.

Ron laughed heartily, and patted one of the kneazles on the head. Draco smiled, and thought he was pretty sure that this was the single best day of his life. _I just kissed Harry fucking Potter_ , he thought to himself, _who would have ever seen that coming? ...And no one even hexed me!_

* * *

 **Notes:** If you're wondering why I chose a skunk for Draco's patronus, it's because it symbolically is almost the total opposite of what he is. From what I understand, a patronus manifests not only based on the wizard's personality, but also as a sign of what they need the most at the time. So, since skunks symbolize a bunch of relevant things: patience, calm, peace, and good judgment - I thought it was a good match. And well, just like nobody really wants to be friends with Draco until they get to know him (instead of judging him by who he appears to be), no one wants to get too close to a skunk, either. TBH, I had a hard time choosing between that and a porcupine. But I wanted to go with something that was more what he is missing than what he is. …Which is also why Harry's is a snake, because it's the perfect representation of everything that Draco is: cunning, confident, charismatic, graceful and supposedly inclined toward healing.

I spent waaaaay too much time reading up on shamanic animal totems and meanings for this fic lmfao. Someone kill me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: A Hot Mess**

* * *

"It almost feels like we're getting stuff for Hogwarts again." Ron stared at the list Draco had given given him – the textbooks. "It's sort of fun, you know?"

"Yeah, since I'm paying for it," Draco said with a smirk. "Make sure you get the most recent editions of those, Weasley."

"I can read, Ferret arse."

"Behave, you two," Hermione admonished them, and shot Ron a stern glare.

Harry just shook his head and gave Draco an apologetic sort of smile.

In order to get everything on the list, and get it done within one afternoon, Harry had managed to acquire Hermione and Ron's assistance. They were all seated around a small round table in the back corner of the Leaky Cauldron, sharing lunch. It was mostly deserted aside from the regulars as Hogwarts' term had already begun.

"So, I need... The most recent version of the Ministry's official Healer's code of ethics handbook, _Braxton's Compendium of Magical Maladies,_ " Ron read. " _Medicinal Magic: Grade One,_ _An Introduction to Curative Potions,_ and... Fuck that's a lot of books. There's like fifteen more. 'Mione, he's gonna need you to charm something like that purse of yours to carry all this shit around."

"That's actually not a bad idea, Ron. It wasn't that hard to do," Hermione replied, checking over her own shopping list. "You'll probably have to go to Obscurus for some of those books. I doubt Flourish and Blots has the more specialized ones. Can I even get surgical tools like this in Diagon Alley?"

"Probably not, but there's a Healer's supply shop in Knockturn alley," Draco suggested. "I guess Wiseacre's should have the scales and supplies I'll need, Harry."

"All right then, let's get this done and meet up at Fortescue's for ice cream around three," Harry said and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape.

Ron had a point, Draco thought as he made his way down the busy street, It was kind of nostalgic. He even stopped for a moment to check out the display of the newest racing brooms and wondered for a moment if professional Quidditch was an option. He ignored a _Daily Prophet_ reporter snapping a photo of him, and found his way into Twilfitt and Tatting's. He'd have rather gone to Madam Malkin's to spite his mother, but they didn't sell Loxley's uniform there. A plump, well-dressed middle-aged witch with bright red hair greeted him with a curt nod of her head.

"I'll need a set of uniforms for Loxley Hollow Academy," Draco informed her.

"What year?" She asked, a charmed tape measure already taking his measurements .

"First," He told her and followed her to the second floor of the shop, her tape measure nearly strangling him as it measured his shoulders.

"Very good. So you'll be needing class attire, and lab attire," She said mostly to herself and began rifling through a rack of pale mint colored robes. "You'll want a couple extra sets of the lab attire, they'll get filthy beyond repair and you'll be back here in a month – trust me." The shopkeeper told Draco and handed him a set of robes, ushering him into the dressing room. He looked at himself in the mirror, and decided that he actually liked the color scheme. They weren't robes, really. It was more like a formal outfit with a knee-length tailcoat. The shirt and pants were white with a silver trim. The coat was a pale mint color, with a deep emerald hued ivy pattern embroidered along the edges of the cuffs and collar, that matched the satin vest. The buttons and fastenings were polished silver.

"Hmm, not that often I see someone make their uniform look quite _that_ good," The witch quipped with a wry smile. "This color suits you. Slytherin?"

"Slytherin," Draco confirmed, with some amusement.

It took her about an hour to tailor four sets of robes to fit him properly, and to embroider his name and year under Loxley's crest (A wand and potion vial surrounded by a ring of ivy leaves), on the left breast of the jackets. The lab attire was similar, but with short sleeves and completely white aside from the emerald green embroidery. There would be no hiding the dark mark wearing that, he realized somewhat glumly.

Next on Draco's list were the potion's ingredients. He didn't dare trust the others with that. Hermione, maybe, definitely not Harry or Ron. Harry, he knew, couldn't brew the most basic potions without disastrous side effects. How he'd managed to pass his NEWT with a high enough grade to be an Auror never ceased to amaze Draco. Even Longbottom's potion making talents were often less abysmal than Harry's, and that was saying something. He checked over the list one more time, as he entered the apothecary.

It was fairly busy for a weekday, and a witch was arguing loudly with the shopkeeper over the price of newt liver. Beside her, much to Draco's surprise, was Gregory Goyle. He'd always been pants at potions, almost on par with Harry and Longbottom. So what was he doing there? He looked like he was at the end of his patience waiting for the obnoxious witch to get out of his way so he could speak with the shopkeeper.

"Greg?" Draco asked, curiously.

He turned to face him with wide eyes. "Draco? It's been years. How have you been?"

Draco shrugged. "Not terrible. Things are getting a little better? You?"

"Eh, probably better than you. Fuck Zabini, mate. Or, maybe don't," He said, with a knowing smirk.

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "No one is ever going to let me forget that." _And,_ he added silently, i _t's about to get a lot worse because there's no way my being involved with Harry fucking Potter will be a secret forever._

"I heard you quit being an Auror. What are you going to do now?" Greg asked, his voice cordial. They'd owled one another on occasion, but seeing him in person served as a painful reminder of why exactly Draco needed to work so hard on being on a better person. If it weren't for him, Vince might still be alive, and Greg might still have been his best friend instead of greeting him with a cold indifference. He'd obviously changed a lot over the years as well, Draco realized. He had quick eyes, and and carried himself with a lot more poise than the dumb brute Draco remembered from his days at Hogwarts.

"Well, I'm going in for year three at Loxley Academy in a few days if you care," Greg said when Draco didn't answer.

"You're... Going to be a healer?" Draco asked, a little more critically than he'd meant to.

"I'm not stupid, you know! I'm a little slow with potion making, but I'm pretty handy at charm work now. And, well, I wanted to do something better than growing up to be death eater scum like my parents," He snapped icily.

Draco gave him a wry smile. "I'll see you there, then. I'll be starting my first year as well."

"You're joking."

Draco showed him the acceptance letter.

"You're bloody serious. Also, fuck you. I had to sit through a year's worth of remedial potions classes and take the entry exam twice to get accepted," Greg replied in utter disbelief. "All to take classes for something completely irrelevant. I'm going to be a mind healer, not a bloody mediwizard. What are you going for? Not that they let you pick a specialization until the second year."

"I'm not sure yet, honestly." Draco glared daggers at the witch that was _still_ demanding a discount. "...But probably to be a bloody mediwizard."

"I think you'll be good at it, you know. Healing magic, I mean. It's a lot of really complicated charm work, and you need to be able to function well under pressure, but you always were the best of us when it came to that," Greg told him. "Thank _fuck,_ " He grumbled when the witch finally stomped out of the store without her overpriced newt livers.

"Well, I'll be seeing you I suppose. Good luck, Greg," Draco said stiffly.

"You too, Draco."

He checked the time, and hastily began filling a basket with the ingredients he needed a supply of. He had about twenty minutes left before he was supposed to meet up with the others. Thankfully most of it was dried herbs that would keep well, rather than bits of magical creatures. He imagined he'd need to buy them fresh as needed depending on what projects he would be assigned.

He was the last to arrive at Fortescue's Ice cream parlor. The other three were already sitting at a table outside. Hermione was reading one of his books with obvious interest, ignoring the half melted strawberry sundae beside her that Ron was eying hungrily. Draco dropped his bags on the ground next to the others and took the empty seat next to Harry, who was sipping a cold butter beer.

"So, find everything okay?" He asked.

"I'm missing one of the books, but the bloke at Flourish and Blots said he'd order it. It'll be in on the fourth," Ron told him, and gave in to temptation, reaching for Hermione's ice cream. She swatted his hand away and glared at him.

"Really Ronald, you ate two of these already. Go get Draco something," She chastised him and put Draco's book in the bag at her feet. "I found everything alright, and picked up a few extra things I thought you might find useful."

"Same here," Harry said with a smile. "So, what's the uniform like?"

"Disgustingly formal and expensive," He said with a smirk, and gave Harry a wink. "Also, I was told I make it look amazing."

"Amazingly _gay_ , I'll bet," Harry retorted, unable to keep a straight face.

Ron made a gagging sound and decided it was good time to go follow Hermione's instructions and vanished into the ice cream parlor.

"Ignore him," Hermione said, her eyes twinkling. "He's just being a prat, but he's okay with it – with you two, I mean. We had a very long talk about it last night."

"You mean you told him not to be a wanker about it, twenty different ways and threatened to hex his tender bits off if has a problem with it," Harry said, trying not to laugh.

 _So that's it? We're a thing now_ , Draco thought to himself, _just like that?_

"Yeah, pretty much," Hermione agreed, hiding a mischievous smile a she took a bite of ice cream. "You okay, Draco? You look like someone's just died or something."

"I'm fine," He lied, thinking of the way it had felt to kiss Harry. If he'd had his way, he'd never stop doing it. It had felt so _right_. But what did Harry actually want? Probably not someone as dysfunctional as Draco. He could do better and he knew it.

"Ron's taking too long," Hermione said and got up. "I swear if he's eating _another_ one of those things..."

Draco watched as she stepped into the shop. "Not very subtle, is she?"

"Nope, that's Hermione," Harry replied. "She always means well, though. Everything okay?"

Draco glanced over his shoulder, the usual paranoia kicking in. God forbid if anyone heard them talking about, well, themselves. "Is this...? Are we...?" He stared at the table, anything to avoid looking at Harry.

"Are we what?"

"A don't know... A thing?"

"It sure felt that way yesterday when you kissed me like your life depended on it," Harry replied, some of the tension in him seeming to vanish. "But, if you don't want to be..."

"No! I mean yes!" Draco cried, wishing he hadn't sounded so desperate. "I just... I don't want it to be another train wreck to add to my track record."

"It won't be," Harry assured him. "I promise."

"What do you see in me, anyway?" Draco asked. "I'm not a particularly easy person to deal with."

"True, you're a wanker. But not completely horrible." Harry groaned and hid his face in his hands. "I am really bad at this relationship shit, you know that?"

"I'm much worse at it, trust me," Draco replied, smiling in spite of himself. "So, it's official then? Us?"

"If you want it to be," Harry said. "And you called _me_ thick."

"I think I do," Draco said quietly, just as Hermione dragged Ron out of the ice cream shop. _I just don't know that I deserve it,_ he added silently and gave Ron an awkward smile as he handed him a vanilla ice cream cone covered in rainbow sprinkles. "Fuck you entirely, Weasel. Really? Rainbow?"

Ron tried not to giggle like a little girl, Harry aimed a kick at him and all four of them dissolved in a fit of childish laughter.

* * *

Later that night, Draco was (finally) alone with Harry at Grimmauld place. They sat together on the sofa in the upstairs sitting room in their pajamas. Harry was eating some of Draco's leftover candy, while he was sitting next to him skimming over one of his text books with his head resting on Harry's shoulder. The whole thing was so ridiculously domestic it made Draco want to laugh. Instead, he closed the book and dropped it on the sofa next to him. He sighed and scooted a bit closer to Harry, deciding that he liked the warmth of being near him.

"We'll have to tell my mother about us," Draco mumbled.

"Am I going to survive that?" Harry asked with a soft chuckle.

"Probably," Draco quipped. "I think she likes you."

"You'll have to go to the Burrow every Sunday night for dinner," Harry said and poked him in the ribs. "No excuses."

"Am I going to survive that?" Draco retorted, mockingly.

"Ginny might hex you, but you'll be fine." Harry ruffled his hair, and nudged him to move so he could get up. He didn't go anywhere, though. He just leaned over and kissed Draco softly on the forehead. Draco thought he might melt, and gasped softly as Harry straddled his hips and took him in a proper kiss. I could get used to this, Draco thought hazily and pulled Harry closer so that he was nearly sitting on his lap.

"You smell good," Harry whispered, and tangled his fingers in Draco's hair. "It's getting late. I'm going to bed, you coming?"

Draco just sort of froze, caught off guard by the implication of the words. Harry sighed and gathered him into his arms. "Breathe, idiot. I didn't mean it _that_ way. I don't think either of us are ready for that."

"Sorry," Draco mumbled awkwardly and let Harry half drag him to his bedroom.

Harry's room, at least, was in a much better state than the rest of the house. And, thankfully, not decorated with Gryffindor flags and Quidditch posters. Though, to be fair they weren't fifteen anymore so Draco wasn't sure why he was expecting that. Instead, it was mostly tasteful, neutral colors with green accents. There were plants on the windowsills, some of them Draco recognized, others he didn't. He didn't resist as Harry basically shoved him into the king size bed and wrapped himself around him.

"So, what are you so nervous about?" Harry asked, dragging the covers over them. "And, I'm not trying to be shitty, I need to know."

"I'm not nervous," Draco hissed and buried his face against Harry's chest.

"You know what else you aren't? A good liar." Harry tucked his thumb under Draco's chin and tilted his head up so their eyes met. "I'm trying to help, but you need to let me."

"It's not you," Draco said warily. "Or anyone, really. Do you remember when you asked me when I figured out that I'm gay? And when I said that I hate that part of myself? It's that. I like this, being close to you, but I despise myself for liking it. Does that make any sense? ...And are you sure you want me, knowing that? Knowing that I'm... Well, a fucking mess, to be completely honest."

"It's okay. You're _my_ mess." Harry yawned and let Draco go back to nuzzling his face into his shoulder. "And you're a really _hot_ mess, so yeah, I'm okay with it. All of it. Even this," He said as he took Draco's hand in his and placed a soft kiss against his left forearm – right in the center of the dark mark.

Draco squirmed uncomfortably, but didn't pull away no matter how much he wanted to. "I hate that the most."

"I know," Harry said. "You think I haven't noticed that you wear long sleeves in the middle of summer? It's just a scar, kind of. Something you survived, and you're stronger because of it. It's going to be okay, Draco. Just give it time, and trust me. I'm not going to hurt you – not on purpose, at least."

"I don't deserve you," Draco mumbled. "I really don't."

"That's enough of that. Go to sleep, we have a rough couple of days ahead of us. I've got to get the shop going, and you have studying to do," Harry said, smoothing a few wayward strands of Draco's hair out of his face. "It's going to be okay," He repeated and held Draco close.

Maybe, Draco decided, closing his eyes and listening to the steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat, it _will_ be okay.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED!**

* * *

Thanks everyone for reading! I've decided to end this here, and divide this mess into at least two, maybe more parts because the story is going to be going in a bit of a different direction from here. We'll see how it goes. The beginning of Part Two should be up in a few days, and will have plenty of delicious smut, so keep an eye out for it! Please review and let me know what you think. :3 I really appreciate any comments!

 **EDIT:** Part two is up on my page!


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